


In A Universe Less Kind

by A_Poison_Tree



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Always wanted to know what happened to John Clay, F/M, Gen, Love me some Time Travel, Queer Character, Queer Themes, This is what my quarantine brain has suggested!, Time Travel, bad language, case fic? kinda?, did a frankly surprising amount of research, mild period typical homophobia, mild violence, probably still missed some stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Poison_Tree/pseuds/A_Poison_Tree
Summary: In the wake of a deadly flu pandemic, the castoff sons and daughters of London's noble families begin to disappear. One and then two, and by the time a man shows up to hire Sherlock Holmes to investigate, claiming a long association with the detective, six have gone. No bodies, no trace, and Doctor Watson suspects the enigmatic stranger knows far more about the matter than he's letting on. But as an old foe reappears and the game begins to turn deadly, the detective and his faithful chronicler find themselves embroiled in a case with two centuries of build up.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

**London, New United Territories, 2163**

The weathernets blew the fog in. Curls of it drifted across the water walls along the Thames, smelling like damp electronics. Spittles of water dotted the grey concrete, turning it glimmering black under the grid of LEDs hovering above the street. Against the filmy green ash that coated the ground, a ragged shadow drifted in the vague shape of a woman.  


The noise of steps shuffled across the ground and the shadow shifted; tightened what might have been an awkwardly positioned arm, curled around her shoulder like an invisible beach ball sat wedged between her bicep and her wrist. High above her, the whirring engine of a hovercab descended into the lower reaches of the city, the whine turning into a deeper whap-whap-whap as it got closer. The figure paused. Her chin tucked into her shoulder, ducking, buried there, its edges trembling and feathering further. As the cab pulled off, toward a neon sign smeared by the fog, the head lifted, tilted to keep one eye on it. Taillights blazed toward the shadow, and for a moment, two sparks of gold danced in the otherwise empty air.  


Silence returned. The shadow resumed walking.  


Prints from generic rubber boots, outline as feathered and vague as the shadow, appeared in the thick dust. A soft noise echoed in the empty silence, and two print outlines appeared next to each other on the wall dividing the ash from the sharp drop toward the river. It churned, dark and frothing a hundred feet down. Ooze gathered at the edges, the scent of rot burping up from the waves. The shadow, shrouded in the deeper darkness away from the city’s glow, faded away. Only the scratching, soft, scrape of footfalls sounded, ash and dust kicking up in miniature snowstorms as the shade passed. A step to the right, and the remains of a road, broken into icebergs of asphalt, grew blighted grass, blades stretching from the cracks up toward the absent sky. The color looked as leached from the vegetation as the fog itself. Remains of buildings, hollowed out and silent, dotted the roadside. Firelight flared from an occasional window, distorted by browned, dirty glass. No one came to challenge the interloper, or even seemed to notice the traces of her passing. Not when she balanced along the wall, and not as she stopped, in front of a building devoid of even that meager welcome the half-dead fires offered. Far above, the hovercabs whirred and whirled, picking up fares from the clubs in the level just above, or the nicer clubs above that. One or two flew through the skyways to London’s top level, where the CEOs lived in their penthouses, above the miasma that shrouded the undercity in its grime. It eddied as the woman passed, otherwise invisible.  


A grunt echoed in the silence. Invisible or no, dust puffed up as she dropped something, outlining a six foot or so oblong, no defined shape. Heavy enough that its depositor sighed with satisfaction, burden relieved, and dusted her hands off, little unattached clouds forming and disappearing in the nothingness. Bootprints lighter, she turned and walked back the way she came, the Thames to one side, and the road on the other. The shadow reappeared, eventually. Five minutes, then ten of silence. A car appeared in the distance, wing doors open and paint reflecting none of the LEDs. Its outline blurred as the neon sign had, impossible to pin down, a smear of charcoal on the grey-paper horizon. The woman marched toward that, one foot in front of the other, and as she pressed her palm against the door, a figure resolved just inside the cockpit.  


“You did well, Aquila.” A man in a riot of blues and greens, eyes covered with purple lenses, smiled toward the shadow. He reached forward and plucked something off her shoulder, a metallic ball, fist-sized. The shadow went solid; a woman appeared. Fog wreathed her as she stared, green-hazel eyes half pupil and black-gloved hands clenched into fists. “Get back in and report.”  


She did, one foot and then the other, climbing into the seat across from the speaker. The cowl she wore fluttered to her back, revealing a square jaw, clenched, her pale skin looking green in the filtered light. She lurched as the car took off, and sat with a little huff, not taking her eyes off the man across from her, as he tucked the cloaking ball back into his pocket. “The package was delivered as ordered, Director,” she said, voice flat. “One car encountered.”  


“Did they see you?” the Director leaned forward, fingers steepled.  


“No.”  


“Hm.” He continued in that position, elbows and knees and fingers to lips, until the car rose above the fog. Lanes of traffic hovered above them, the detritus of the undercity chasing their path them as they ascended. Lights from a thousand buildings burned away the grey, neon in a riot of colors blinking brighter than any stars possibly could. A bar, a club, a cathouse, a restaurant—this and that and everything else, advertised in colors so brilliant that the Director blinked, eyes adjusting behind his holo lenses. The roofs of the buildings disappeared into the night sky, high enough that the window tops cut them off.  


“Thomas,” he said, reaching up to tap one of the silvery buttons on the side of the car. It reflected back a particularly brilliant pink from a passing bar, the image of a martini glass dancing back and forth. A holographic scene in the shape of an inverted triangle sat in the center of it, showing a visualization set to whatever music blared inside the dance floor. Arcs of pastel neons peaked and valleyed, then exploded into fireworks, each dot raining down the glass’s stem in waves of sound.  


“Yes, Director?” The answering voice filled the car, high pitched and less cool than either Aquila or the Director’s. “Was there a problem with the delivery?”  


“No, no, the delivery went well,” the Director said, turning to stare at Aquila. She sat in exactly the same position as she had initially, the tops of her knuckles brushing the plain leather of the seat and her back ram-rod straight. “Though I suspect something’s wrong with the serum again.”  


“Is…is it glitched again? I’m sorry, I thought I’d fixed it, I…” Thomas’s voice quavered, almost inaudible over the car’s speakers. The Director smiled, teeth catching red as they passed a set of neon lips.  


“No, no. Nothing quite so dire. But she hasn’t blinked. Not once.” Aquila continued to stare, the left side of her upper lip trembling, twitching into something like a snarl.  


“Ah. The dosage…right. I’ll need to work on it.”  


“Please do. Those ocular edits were very extensive, I’ll have you know. I don’t want all your hard work ruined when her corneas dry out.” The Director turned to look at Aquila. “Blink, darling,” he said, smiling again. She did, slow and deliberate.  


“Humans blink about ten times a minute, Director.” Thomas’s voice came across the speaker.  


“You can’t seriously expect me to remind her that frequently, Thomas. I’ve other things to think about.”  


“Oh, of course not, no.” Another tremble, and the other side of Aquila’s lips twitched. “But you might consider sedating her. If she’s not been blinking this whole time, I’d be worried about the potential for damage. It might be easier just to turn her off for now.”  


“Mm. Remind me what happened last time we tried that, Thomas?” The Director pressed another silver button, the purple reflecting from a hotel bright in the cars dim interior. “Two weeks ago now, wasn’t it?”  


“Err, yes. Well. She woke up and hadn’t remained under the control of the serum, and…and she snapped Hawk’s neck.”  


“We had to revive him, didn’t we?” An interface of criss-crossing green lines spread through the empty air between the Director and Aquila. The lines chased themselves, curving and arcing until a map formed, the length of the Thames a curling blue line, stretching from the car’s roof to its floor. A single red dot, blinking, moved as the car did; joining a thousand other, smaller dots in various shades of green, all flowing across the map. One by one they splintered away, and other lanes of traffic merged, a hundred dotted lines encircling the city. Far to the corner of the map, a red X remained in place, blinking.  


“We did. Yes.”  


“And how much did that cost, Thomas?” The Director gestured at nothing, one stubby finger extended and palm lax. “Blink,” he said again, turning toward Aquila. She did, lids trembling.  


“I don’t—”  


“How much?” The Director sat forward, the tip of his aquiline nose brushing Ladybones Road.  


“I…fifty k-creds. The damage was…extensive. It disrupted his implants.”  


“Ahhh. So each time you fudge the serum, Thomas, we waste more and more taxpayer dollars.” The Director prodded a specific spot on the map in time with his emphasis, and the silence stretched long in the cab. Thirty seconds, forty seconds, almost a minute, and Aquila remained unblinking.  


“Yes.” Thomas finally spoke, and the smile turned into a grin, white teeth glimmering in the dark.  


“Right. And as I’m the only one in the cab with Aquila right at present, I’m going to refrain from doing anything that could potentially disrupt the effects. You’ll need to adjust the dose again.”  


“Yes, Director.”  


“And you’ll need to undo any damage done by her, ah, unblinking. You can do that, surely?”  


“Yes, Director. I’ll have the proper setups here, waiting for your arrival.”  


“This is terribly inconvenient, Thomas.” With one stubby finger, the only mobile occupant of the car traced a path from the little X in the corner to a building in the upper left, its edges outlined in bright yellow, glimmering in the darkness. “We were planning on returning her home.”  


“I wouldn’t recommend that in any case, Director. I’d like to run more tests, make sure she really is going under.”  


The blunt tip of the finger paused in mid air. “This is becoming tiresome.” No smile in the words, no smile on the Director’s face, and both corners of Aquila’s lips twitched, up then down. They remained there, teeth bared in a half-grimace. The Director stared, his jaw setting and eyes narrowing. “Very tiresome.”  


“This wasn’t meant as a permanent solution, Director!” The quaver turned into a panicked high pitch, and the noise of shuffling came across the communicator. “We need more time to refine the solution for existing candidates, and we can still do that, but ultimately we need to ensure permanent genetic compliance, and—”  


“So you’ve said.” Thomas went silent at the interruption. “And while I don’t disagree, the training required to turn any one of those whelps into something approaching Aquila’s efficiency, or even the efficiency of a Falcon, or a Hawk—it would take years. That’s been made clear. Obvious. There are some things, many things, that need be done now.”  


“Yes I…I understand.” Thomas sighed into the communicator, and the Director’s brows spiked. “I’ll have everything ready to check her in the moment you get here.”  


“Thank you.” No response came; none needed. The Director pressed the button, now reflecting the bright red of some passing building strung with a hologram of paper lanterns. He sighed himself, and turned back to Aquila, shaking his head. “Blink, please.” She did, faster than before, and he shook his head. “You are such a difficult case, my darling. I do wish you’d dispense with your theatrics and….ahhh.” The smile returned as the little X glowed, a bright, firey orange, and then seemed to dissolve entirely, disappearing into the darkness. “Well, then. Let’s hope you don’t remember this tomorrow.”  


Her lips remained set in a frown; her eyes, unblinking.


	2. Where the Lights Play

“Lis. Lissy, wake up.” 

Voice—touch. Awake, suddenly. Lis surged to her feet, grabbing the shoulder of the person who’d woken her. A half-second too late, she registered the familiarity of the voice—and the arm now elbow-locked in front of her, its owner pressed to the desk she’d just been sleeping on.

“Hm. Well. Glad your reflexes are still solid. Good to know.” Victor Armoir, dark hair deliciously tousled and jacket pressed clean, huffed into the pile of datapads covering Lis’ desk. “And your grip is—” Vic flexed, trying to break out of the lock, and Lis rolled her eyes. She let him, taking a step back and crossing her arms. “Ahha. Weak!” He looked over his shoulder and shuffled aside the pile of work, tutting as she rolled her eyes again.

“My grip is probably fine. If it’s less than its usual, it’s only because I’ve been at this all day.” She swept past him to leverage herself up to sit on her desk, feet not quite touching the floor. “Been a long one.”

“So I see.” Vic snagged one of the data holos, bringing the thing nearly to his fashionably-crooked, beaky nose. “All of the vagues found down in the Undercity? Really? That’s what you’re wasting valuable drinking time over?” 

Lis crossed her arms tighter. “There’s something weird about it, that’s all.”

“How?” Vic turned his back to the desk, scanning the holo with a bored look on his face, all half-lidded eyes and pursed lips. “It’s a bunch of vagues. Prolly refugees, best case. Worst case it’s anarchists; you know the Undercity is lousy with them. Thick as suits on Saturday, you know how it is.” He bumped her shoulder with his. “Waste of your time and talent, chicky.”

“Not a waste of my talent if I can’t figure out where they’re all coming from,” she retorted, but leaned her cheek on his arm nevertheless. “It’s like…they’re well-treated, yeah? No malnutrition; no signs of violence besides, you know. The obvious. Being dead.”

“You seen the bodies?” Lis shook her head, wrinkling up her nose. “Then how’d you know there’s no sign of violence? Zonies aren’t exactly the best with picking things like that out. Could be poisoned, could be diseased, could be shocked…zonies wouldn’t know.” Vic shrugged, moving his shoulders just enough to emphasize and not enough to dislodge her. “Could even be piggies, escaped from some Biotech place. You dunno, and it’s really, really not worth looking into. Leave it to the zonies or the CityCops; it’ll keep ‘em busy. God knows they need it.”

“Fuck off, I used to be a zonie. Zone cop is a noble profession,” Lis muttered, and snatched the holopad away from Vic, setting it to the side. 

“Oh shut it, you got picked out and elevated and that proves you’re better than the rest,” Vic said, curling his arm around her waist and tugging her closer. 

“Moved up to CityCop, and then here, didn’t you? Don’t be stupid. ‘Sides, zonies for the Undercity are the worst of the bunch. All newbies and burnouts and stim addicts. Unless one of the newbs is pushing the investigation or you can sneak in and see the bodies—which I absolutely do not recommend, by the way, I know you—you’re not gonna find anything new.” Sneaking in and seeing the bodies. Hm. “No,” Vic said, bumping her shoulder again. “Absolutely not. Don’t. You’re solid here; don’t ruin it.” 

“Fine, fine.” Lis raised her hands up in a faux-surrender, and put aside the notion. Momentarily.

“People’re gonna think you’re going soft, you keep up like this. No one cares about vagues.”

“Mhm. People who think I’m going soft can just test my reflexes,” Lis responded, and Vic snorted.

“C’mon, then. Test your reflexes with Izzy and me tonight. Dances, drinks. Maybe some zippers, then our place?”

“Mm, tempting.” Vic squeezed the top of her hip, and Lis shuffled closer, pleased by the warmth and invitation. It had been a long week, traipsing down to the Undercity and back. No new leads there, either, and with the latest one gone cold, Lis had found herself at ends. “Where you want to go? Upper City’s got better zippers.” Been a while since she’d gotten lit like that, either, and maybe a bit of fun would do her good. 

“It’d have to be Deardrop. The Balloon got shut down again.”

“What!” Lis scooted back, just enough to stare. “When, why?”

“Last week and…for the same reason they got shut down last time. Unauthorized songs on the playlist; got a C&D, refused to comply because the patrons liked it too much, IntSec came in and dragged Greaser out, shut the whole place down. Dunno if it’ll be permanent.”

“Intelligence Security is cunts,” Lis muttered, and tried to curl back to Vic’s side. As she spoke he moved away, standing across from her, glimmering eyes narrowed.

“You can’t just say things like that.” He crossed his arms, dark brows furrowing. Almost enough to wrinkle his forehead—not quite. “Especially not with your background. Director won’t like it.”

“You gonna tell him?” She quirked a brow, tension spreading down the back of her neck to her shoulders. 

“Hell no,” he muttered, and resumed his spot beside her. “But you gotta watch your mouth, unless you wanna get busted back down to a CityCop.” 

“Or worse, a zonie.” Lis sighed, and rolled her head from side to side, trying to banish the beginnings of an ache. 

“Or worse, a zonie,” Vic echoed. “I’d drink to that. C’mon then, Deardrop and forget about it?”

Lis heaved a sigh, glancing down at the holopad at her side. “I shouldn’t,” she said, reluctance tinged with resentment rising up behind her ribs, vicious and warm. “Got stuff to do back at the flat, you know how it is.”

Vic turned to stare. She’d worked with him for almost five years; known him— _really_ known him— for almost two. But she couldn’t quite get under his skin, figure out what the little tension in the corners of his eyes or the slight frown on his lips meant. About a 75 percent probability it was judgment, but Lis didn’t like to think about it. The best PoliSec Agiles—there were more common words, but Lis didn’t like to think about those either—could even fool a Two Way, the finely-calibrated lie detectors not quite finely calibrated enough to get past the best training money could buy. Well, training and mods, anyway, and no one could tell which way the balance fell. Lis thought a different person might have looked forward to ending up so skilled. It mostly made her nauseated, and she looked away first. 

“Yeah, I know how you go,” he finally said, and leaned harder to her side. “Just don’t get too serious, Lis. All work and no play, you know how it is. I know you’ve got responsibilities, but that can’t be all you do, eh?”

“I know, I know.” She headbutted him gingerly, one last time before he shifted away. “I’ll do something fun soon.”

“You’d better.” Vic grabbed her hand and squeezed, then turned back toward the frosted glass wall that made up the front of the office. Open plan, of course, with little walless desk cubes in a neat grid pattern. Lis’ sat toward the back—privilege afforded to the most competent. Vic’s was nearby, and he grabbed the shoulder bag draped over his chair before he meandered toward the entrance. “Promise you’ll leave soon?” he asked, turning and walking backward so he could face her.

“Yeah, yeah. I ought to get home anyway.” Lis swept the whole stack of pads, save the main one, into her top drawer, letting it drift shut with a soft click. Locked away for the weekend. Were it only so easy to put the case away in her head. Case—it wasn’t really a case, even, just a series of bodies, and much as she wanted it otherwise, those weren’t the same thing. 

“Want me to wait?” Victor paused, and Lis shook her head.

“Nah. Going to the lockers, gotta grab some stuff I picked up over lunch. Don’t wanna leave it for the weekend crew; I liked those noodles.”

Vic laughed and shook his head, but turned back around. “Fine, fine. Be safe. Com me if you wanna do something this weekend, yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

He tossed a wave over his shoulder and passed through the entry, the little cameras recording his exit. Frosted glass blurred his outline as he went, making it a smeared, ragged silhouette of a man. Lis sighed, and slumped back into her chair, hand on her forehead and elbow on the desk.

Five bodies. Five bodies had turned up in the undercity over the last two months. All of them male, none of the with any clear sign of how they’d died. No records to speak of—not even forged ones. No past on the net, no images of them available apparently anywhere. Ghosts. Vagrants, she’d originally thought. But none of them had the signs of malnutrition that most vagrants did, denied access into most of the city and therefore its stores. Vic’s theory that they were piggies, escaped test subjects from some biotech corp or another and therefore intentionally ghosted, would have held water—a few of them had marks that Lis thought seemed like scarring from a disease. But no one could say for sure how the bodies had been dumped, or who’d done it. She’d seen the vid feeds, such as they were, herself. Like they’d just appeared out of thin air. Wouldn’t be out of the question for one of the larger biotech corps to have a cloak, but then, the larger biotech corps tended to keep their test subjects on the up and up. With so many people willing to volunteer, made no sense to try and bend the rules. 

Of course, Lis also hadn’t been able to actually access the bodies. The Director wasn’t technically wrong when he’d told her off for trying to investigate. Random bodies meant zone cops; worst case city cops, and certainly not PoliSec. They got missions, specific ones, and didn’t solve crimes. Lis, half-stuck back among more prosaic positions, found herself missing the certainty of solving actual crimes. The bodies had all seemed young, from what she could tell, and that hadn’t exactly made it easier for her to dismiss. Neither had the lack of movement on the case she’d actually been assigned. 

Still. What she’d told Vic hadn’t been wrong. She had responsibilities at home, and they deserved her attention, maybe, far more than nameless bodies, dumped and left to rot in the ash at bottom levels of the city. 

Lis stood up, and walked after Victor, brow furrowed.

She’d gotten so lost in her thoughts that she ran straight into the cleaning bot, all metallic and conical. Lis almost tripped, righting herself with a twist that put her just in front of the bot’s operator. “’Lo Sam,” she said, waving as she smiled. Speaking of scars: Sam bore a wide, long one across his face, from temple to jawline. No idea how he’d gotten it other than in some military service. Classified, maybe: he’d been exited from the job when he’d refused to get it fixed. Decommissioned and given a low-visibility position. Lis liked him, genuinely, but maintained the distance she’d been taught to, reducing her smile and straightening her back. “On the nightly sweep? Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“Ah, it is, Agile,” he said, and bobbed his head. Lis squashed the urge to shift around at the title. “I’m supposed to be waiting for one of the City Cops. Somerset. Apologies for the interruption—I thought you’d left.” 

Lis raised a brow. “Yes, I know him.” Her old boss, the one who’d put her name forward to move up to PoliSec. Hadn’t seen him for a year or two; half-thought he’d retired. “What’s he doing here?” 

“Don’t rightly know. Something in the fridge room.” Lis clamped down; kept her face still. 

“Ah. Right, the fridge room.” She nodded toward the hallway, curling her lips up and trying to keep her spike of excitement from her face. “I’ll just go check on that, shall I? Make sure everything’s ready for him? I worked with him for a while—might be nice to have a chat while he’s here.” 

“That’s right, you came up from the zones, didn’t you?” A flick of his eyes to hers, a little spark of something. Contempt, maybe—at her old position or her new one, she couldn’t tell. Covered quickly with a smile in any case. “He ought to be here in an hour or so, if you’re truly wanting to wait. I’m sure you’ve got things to do though.” He bobbed his head again, glancing up at her through his stubby lashes. Had he seen her sleeping at the desk? Mortifying. “You always look so busy.” 

“Yes, well. I was on my way out, but I am eager to see him again. We’ll see. Thank you for letting me know.” Lis bobbed her head and swept past, walking down the hall until she couldn’t feel him staring. Looking so busy indeed—Lis frowned to herself and darted into a side room around the corner. Interro room: the door slid open as she approached, recognizing her permissions. That, she thought, would be a problem if she wanted to sneak into the fridge and see the bodies. She should definitely not do that. She should go home and tend to her house.

And yet, Lis found herself sitting in the interro room forty five ticks later, casting a holo from the pad in her pocket. Latest in a novel series about the ruins of Paris. Heavily romanticized—Lis knew that from experience—but a pleasant enough way to pass the time. The cleaning drone had whirred by a quarter of an hour ago, and Lis supposed—hoped, really—that meant Somerset would be here soon and Sam had left. Much longer and she’d need to let her brother know she’d be home late, and that conversation she did not look forward to. 

Then a familiar voice drifted down the hall, deep, a bit of a brogue. She ended the cast and stood up, peeping out of the door left, and then right. No sign of Sam, and Somerset spoke again, from just down the hall. Toward the fridge, she though, and Lis stepped out, darting down the hall and hoping Sam had, in fact, gone home. 

The fridge stood a bit apart from the rest of the rooms in the building, doors solid steel, pressed to carpet water stained by the occasional condensate leak. PoliSec rarely needed to hold bodies for any extended length of time, anyway, and the fridge seemed more like a concession to the idea that they solved any crimes at all. Lis passed by it only infrequently, but she thought the water damage had gotten larger since she’d last seen it. 

“Somerset?” she called out, and a head peeped out from the doorframe. The shock of orange hair altogether too familiar, Lis began to smile, enough for her eyes to crinkle, as Lead Matthew Somerset, augmented eyes nearly bright as hers, caught sight of her.

“Ah, Lis!” he called, leaning out of the room. “Agile, now. Congrats.” The smile on his face faded as she walked closer and he looked her up and down, lingering on her face; catching her gaze and then dropping it. “You’ve been all properly inducted, I see.”

“Yes. Yes, I have,” Lis said, the crinkles around her eyes easing. “And you, you’re doing well?”

“Tolerably.” He straightened, fully as tall as she was, and kept his nod small. “Bit of a banger with these vagues, though.” 

“So I hear. Tried to look into it, but,” Lis shrugged a shoulder, inwardly cringing as Somerset’s brow quirked, then flattened. Little expressions. Twitches, really, small enough that she wouldn’t have spotted them before, the training, maybe. He judged her, the corners of his eyes narrowing just a bit—had he felt that way during their whole acquaintance? Lis’ stomach clenched. 

“Ah, you’re PoliSec now, you’ve got better things to do,” Somerset said, turning away, back toward the room. “You’re curious, though? Feel free to take a look, if you really want.” He walked back inside, and Lis stood for a moment in the hall, closing her eyes. She sucked in a breath, lids fluttering, before walking into the room, chin tipped up. 

Three bodies laid out before her, on little tables exuding clouds of cold steam. All still clothed, eyes closed, looking more like sleeping than dead. Lis suppressed her shudder—they all looked young indeed, and Lis hesitated as she approached, frowning. She’d read the reports: all of them seemed to be under the age of 25, though the exact age varied between them. No obvious signs of violence. Preserved after the first two—sent to PoliSec after someone or another suspected they were anarchists. Incorrectly, as it happened, and so the whole thing passed to Somerset, into the purgatory of the overloaded CityCops’ files. Lis wrinkled her nose: she’d been spending too much time with Vic.

“Have you read the reports?” Somerset broke into her thoughts, though he stared at the bodies rather than at her. “Any theories?”

“None,” she admitted. “But I have read the reports. Thoroughly.” He’d taught her that, once upon a time, and he nodded to himself, flicking the lapel on the jacket of one of the stiffs. Clothes were generic: the one bit that she’d she’d gotten out of the reports that nagged at her, like she’d been missing something obvious. Generic clothes would fit with the piggy theory, but that theory had plenty of holes on its own. And they all dressed so alike that it seemed certain there’d be one entity dumping them…

“Well. I’m gonna go sign off. Left the damn pad back in the car.” Somerset turned away from the youngest looking of the four, glancing up at her for a half-second before heading to the door. 

“You’re doing pickups yourself now?” Lis asked, crossing her arms. “Figured you’d be heading up the investigation, but…”

“Budget cuts.” Somerset did not turn around as he shrugged a shoulder. “Hadta can a buncha cops. Shitty situation, but expected. Just gotta keep our digits crossed that no more bodies start piling up before we can get some sorta resolution outta this.”

He didn’t leave her a chance to respond before walking away, but Lis did not miss the glimmer of a pad inside his jacket pocket as Somerset flounced out of the room.

Lis did not waste any more time. The most recent body sat furthest from the door, in the warmer bit of the room, and she went there first. Shorter side of average, ash-brown hair with a cleft to his chin and scarring across his face. Light scarring, in the shape of little half-moons. She’d seen it before: smallpox, but the scars didn’t seem as deep as they ought to be. Healed up, then, or the start of it. Lis frowned harder at the idea of smallpox being loose anywhere, and tugged aside the lapel of the jacket to examine further. Heavier than it ought to be: much heavier, and Lis flipped it back and forth, trying to discern why or how, exactly. Something moved between the lines of fabric, and Lis froze, sticking the lapel straight out and easing it open. There, catching the harsh white light of the lab, shone a line of stitches in a slightly lighter black. Criss-cross x’s, all uneven, but it concealed what appeared to be a little slit near the seam. “Well, well, well,” Lis muttered, and reached to her thigh. The knife there came out of its sheath without so much as a hiss, and she nudged the very tip it against the fabric. “What have we here?” 

The stitches parted—and so did the fabric, digging into the flesh of her palm. Lis hrmed in annoyance, shoving the knife back into its spot and holding her hand up for inspection. Only a scratch. Already closing, implants doing their work, and she wiped the blood off on her shirt, returning to the lapel. She wiggled it to and fro, until something shiny shone through the slit. It tumbled out onto the bloody palm of her hand, and Lis blinked. Gold. A gold ring, precisely, with a deer and a…rabbit? On the front of it, in a little oval. She prodded it with a finger, frowning as a little clump of something red and waxy tumbled into the base of her thumb. 

A noise from outside—chatter, coming closer. Lis closed her fingers around the thing and shoved it into her pocket, clump of whatever-it-was and all, before patting the man down more thoroughly. His possessions hadn’t been logged yet, and there was always the chance that they hadn’t even checked. That was what Lis had hoped for, anyway, and as she slid her hands down the young man’s hips, she froze. There, a lump—the noises outside grew closer, must act fast—and Lis shoved her hand into the pocket and closed her fingers around something. Something solid, something with whorls and dips, that absorbed her warmth. She extricated it, and Lis’s eyes went so wide she thought they might pop. 

There, in the palm of her hand, sat a pipe. All wood, enough of it that it would have cost a hundred thousand cred or more, assuming someone even know what a pipe was. Enough wood, Lis thought, that there would be no way for anyone who’d wind up dead in the Undercity to get it. Lis couldn’t think of a way for anyone to get it, save for someone who’s great great great….great great? Grandfather passed it down. Her stomach squirmed, and she shoved the pipe into her pocket, knowing, knowing, that what had happened here could not be some Biocorp. This meant something different, and Lis fingered the pad she’d brought with her, considering whether or not anyone would bother looking at the footage from the room. 

“Lis?”

Somerset’s voice came back through the hall, and Lis turned back around, pulling up her most Agile face. No eye crinkles, a little half-smile, jaw set. “Got the hand off all set up?” 

He sighed and nodded, running a hand through his bright orange hair. “All settled. You got any more curiosity you want to satisfy?”

The pipe settled deeper into her pocket, and Lis shook her head. “No. Not at all—my colleagues are probably right. It’s probably best in your hands. We’ve not got the resources, at present.” 

“Oh? Working on anything good?”

Lis grimaced, letting the very real annoyance at her own case well up and erase the false front. “The bombings,” she said, and shoved her hands in the pockets of her pants, walking toward the door and past Somerset. “I’m trying to figure out where in the Undercity the anarchists are holed up—not a lot of leads at present.”

“I imagine not. Funny, I’d have assumed you lot have a mole in the group.” 

The grimace grew. That, actually, had been Vic’s job, slumming around the lower city clubs and trying to find an in. Unsuccessfully: didn’t matter what face he wore or who he spoked to; how he concealed his mods or what backstory he used, he got nowhere fast. Every one of the contacts he’d found dismissed him after a session or two. As though someone had tipped them off, Izzy had said, and privately Lis agreed. Who though—she had no idea. “We’re reluctant to risk our people, I think,” she covered—the official PoliSec line, passed down by the Director and agreed upon by everyone. “There’s no proof that they’re operating in groups, anyway. Easiest just to do independent investigations, end of the day.”

“Right.” Somerset didn’t believe that, and Lis knew Somerset didn’t. But it didn’t matter: he stepped aside regardless, gesturing at the door. “Well, was nice to see you again, Agile. Lis.” A brief glance up at her, and the little smile on his face seemed definitively sad. “Hope they’re treating you well, here. You hear a lot of shit coming out about PoliSec. Rumors about wetwork; about crazy modifications.” 

That glance toward her eyes again, and Lis looked away first. “Nah,” she said, tucking her hands tighter in her pockets. “It’s all been fine.”

“That’s good, then.” 

An awkward silence settled, and Lis scooted closer to the door, feeling a bit ill. “Was nice to see you again, though, Somerset. Let me know if there’s anything I can do about the case.”

“Will do.” He wouldn’t, and Lis knew that. But she waved, and bobbed her head, and headed out the door anyway, pipestem between her fingers and noodles still in her locker.


	3. The Lords at their Rest

The winter of 1889 blew cruelly across London. Snow drifted in the streets and clouds hung heavy in the sky, shredding before the frigid wind only to reform overnight and unleash more flakes. My leg ached, making my rounds, already full with patients, a miserable slog. The Russian Flu came through the city spreading viciously through rich and poor alike. My usual rounds doubled as the ranks of the ill swelled. I found myself barely at home in Baker Street, arriving just in time for a late supper, warm only through the grace of Mrs. Hudson. After, I collapsed into my bed, too exhausted to dream. Morning after morning, I tugged myself from bed and began it all over again, sometimes with the break of sending a runner for supplies. Somehow, I managed to avoid the worst of the flu myself, and spent my energy tending to the sick and sorrowful. 

It wasn’t until the middle of January of 1890 that the parade slowed enough that I had a whole day to myself to curl up in Baker Street. At one elbow sat a neglected pile of Lancets; at the other, a pot of tea, steaming still. The _Lancets_ , I suspected, would remain neglected. The numbness of a physician worn to the bone had utterly eclipsed any thrill I had at new discoveries, and I thought that if I read one more word about the pandemic I might scream. Throughout it all, the only two spots of sanity had been the scraps of cases Homes passed to me when we occasionally crossed paths for breakfast and the steadily solidifying plans for my marriage to Mary. She had been a beacon of warmth during my ordeal, her kindness shining through in the letters we exchanged and the occasional quick visit, for tea and conversation. We would marry in spring, when the snows no longer drifted across the streets, and I awaited it with gladness in my heart. Though I had wished we might have married sooner, the duel concerns of savings and the pandemic kept us from it—and part of me welcomed the time in only my friend’s company, his quiet presence soothing. 

Though Sherlock Holmes had no interest in my nuptials, he had been on my mind regardless, of late, and I puffed at my pipe and considered the news and what it might have brought my companion. I hadn’t kept up with the papers more than the occasional glance at the headlines when the hawkers held them aloft. The gossip caught while treating patients had been only a little more fruitful, but even I knew of the rash of disappearances that had plagued the city, beginning some four months back. Little of it had been reported, other than a few short articles here and there. In that morning’s paper, there remained a small advertisement for any information about the second son of a minor country Lord. He’d been gone nearly months, with no sign of his reappearance, and his mother worried. My heart twisted for her, and I wondered how many of these unfortunates had perhaps died abroad, the flu catching them unawares. Another article next to it had a similar story, more recent. 

“Did you hear another lord’s son has gone missing?” I flicked the paper back, settling deeper into my chair and marking my place in the article before looking up. The results of the races tempted, but the possibility of watching another case tempted more. “Percival Anthony, third son of some Earl or another. Dudley, I think. That makes five now, all up, that we know about.” 

“Mmm,” came the only response. I glanced above the newsprint: Holmes’ back faced me, curved as he bent over his chemical table. One hand held a dropper above a test tube filled with blue liquid—something dangerous, most likely. I sighed and dropped the paper lower. Best have as much warning to run as I could manage. If he remained in the flat, investigating the results of his latest experiment as opposed to flitting around outside, I supposed he had not yet been called in to investigate the crimes. Whether through Scotland Yard or the parents themselves, it seemed unlikely that anyone had contacted him, as yet. Though he had a generally positive reputation, I suppose the upper echelons of society had no desire to call in a consultant who generally remained an outsider. Disappearances usually, in my experience as Holmes’ companion, raised the specters of all sorts of family secrets—many better left untouched and most embarrassing. 

“Do you think you will be hearing from any of their parents?” I asked, watching his one-shouldered shrug in response. “From what I understand, there appears to be no movement on the case thus far. Eventually either Lestrade will become muddled and come to find you, or one of their fathers will decide his fortune is enough that he can spare some to find their wayward offspring.” Both would be equally likely, to my mind, though I expected only another shrug in response.

“Yes, well. Perhaps most of them have only crossed the pond and gotten lost in the back-alleys of Venice or Paris. One or two may have taken up more permanent residences in houses of ill-repute. By my odds, one at least has absconded to Gretna Green with a young woman of questionable motivations whom his parents disapprove of.” Holmes half-turned over his shoulder, raising a brow as he watched my expression of attempted disapproval, my mustache twitching as I tried to tamp my amusement down. “It’s hardly a surprise for a second son, having no other occupation to keep his mind busy, to find some other way of filling his time. What do you imagine, then, a third son would do, with enough pocket money alone to feed a working family for a year? Even without that money, his family’s reputation alone might be enough for a jolly good time elsewhere, particularly if he has the benefit of school chums of greater means.”

“Do you not think any of them are criminal, then?” 

Holmes dropped a small amount of the liquid from the dropper into the tube, face wrinkling up with disappointment as nothing whatsoever happened. He set the whole business aside with a sigh, leaning back on the table and crossing his arms in front of him as he stared at me. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say with any accuracy, my dear doctor,” he said, a brow raising as I leaned back. I knew exactly what he would say, and resisted the urge to interrupt. “Those newspaper articles have preciously little data to them—” ahha, I knew it— “and what’s there is very likely contaminated with the same thinking that makes neighbors insist that no murderer could ever be guilty; they seemed so very charming.” His face wrinkled again, nose creasing and eyes staring dismissively upward, before he turned back to his chemicals. “Regardless, should any of their esteemed fathers come to call, or should Lestrade arrive very downcast, I shall absolutely ensure that you are present. I rather think you’d like the break, after everything so far this year.” 

I smiled and shook my head, returning to the paper. “Of course,” I said, and Holmes hmmmed again in response. Whether or not my obligations with regards to Mary, and the preparations for our wedding, would allow my presence in the investigations would be another matter entirely. Still, I looked forward to what I viewed as an inevitability, and read what remained of the article, mentally weighing the balance between whether or not it would be the Yard or the parents to arrive first. 

“In any case, it’s technically six now,” Holmes muttered, and I glanced up, watching as he fiddled with a pipette. 

“Pardon?”

“Six now. The eldest daughter of the Mountbains. Disappeared after a ball. Potentially unrelated, but I have said before, and will say again, that the universe is rarely so lazy.”

“Hm. Perhaps.” The disappeared offspring had nothing in common save for their noble birth and low rank in that order, but perhaps there existed some secret to it that I couldn’t see. Similar vices—though I struggled to see how a daughter, born first and denied due to her sex, could possibly have the same vices as a third son, left to wander. Still, I let my mind drift over the possibilities offered, raising the newspaper once again and trusting that Holmes would at least give a man some warning before he exploded his chemical set through another table. I reached the end of the article, shook my head, and moved on, though I couldn’t quite abandon my musings.

Had I know how the case would result, I doubt I would have been so eager to assist.

We sat like that much for most of the morning, Holmes engrossed in his experiments and I in my paper, then eventually, my _Lancets _. I picked through them with more reluctance than I wish to consider, and set them aside sooner rather than later. A novel took their place, something that took me far away from the winter chill of the outside and the flu that still popped up. Mary would call in the afternoon and we would walk around the park: she had some opinions on where we ought to reside after our marriage, and I wished to discuss the breakfast with her, and thank her again for her support. But until then, I remained contented in the living room of Baker Street, warmed by the fire and the company. I listened to the occasional mutterings of my companion as he walked back and forth in front of the chemistry table, dripping and dropping God only knew what into vials of similarly unidentifiable liquid, with a smile on my face as I read. Eventually I settled enough that I tried the medical texts again, and found that I had a bit more appetite for reading of the latest innovations, having let my mind wander. The world, I thought, progressed rapidly, and as we rushed toward the end of the century, I had no doubt that the pitch of invention would only pick up steam.__

__We might have stayed there until interrupted by Mrs. Hudson bringing us tea or the arrival of my fiancee, had there not sounded several rapid knocks on the front door. Eager—quick, and I glanced out the window. Though the clouds remained high and wispy, the angle was all wrong—I saw no one new, no carriage, only the usual pedestrians tromping through the remaining slush on the sidewalk. Our landlady must have been nearby, preparing our tea perhaps, as I heard her quick tread upon the downstairs. Some muffled conversation transpired, not loud enough to completely drift up to the sitting room, and certainly not loud enough to knock Holmes out of his concentration. Not even when the conversation got louder, enough that I could tell our visitor was male, did he look up._ _

__When Mrs Hudson finally knocked on our door, she wore a conspicuous frown, creasing the wrinkles in her forehead further. “There is a client to see you, Mr Holmes,” she announced. He only grunted, not responding in any particular way, and she sighed. Mrs Hudson looked at me, and I raised my brow over my paper. What would she do, I thought, when I left? She must have had the same consideration, as Mrs Hudson turned back to Holmes, lips thin. “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes!” she said, louder, and he turned away from his chemistry set. The frown he wore smoothed into a smile, and he leaned back against the table, tapping some empty glass vial against his leg._ _

__“Yes, Mrs Hudson? Is there something the matter?” He knew perfectly well what she’d said, I suspected, but she only nodded, the initial look of consternation returning to her face._ _

__“Someone to see you, sir,” she said, face not losing that pinched-in expression._ _

__“Hm. Is there something of interest with our visitor?” He leaned toward her, just enough that I knew his attention had been caught. “Did he leave a card, or give a name?”_ _

__“He doesn’t have a card,” she said. “And he’s dressed…poorly,” she said, clearly trying to be delicate. “He wants to see you; he says he has a very important message indeed—but he keeps peering around, as though he’s about to burgle the place.” Mrs Hudson’s voice rose to a pitch that seemed almost offended, and I sat up straighter._ _

__“Looking around is hardly so odd, Mrs Hudson. If it were, I’d be the oddest man alive.”_ _

__To that I did not comment, much as I wanted to, only continuing to watch Mrs Hudson. She tsked under her breath, and I raised a brow. Mrs Hudson, after so many years of living with the pair of us, had a good sense of things. I trusted her, generally, and I set my paper aside. “Would you like me to see him off?” I asked, and Holmes waved the suggestion away._ _

__“Oh, show him up. It ought to be interesting, anyway,” Holmes said. He tossed a glance at the table, messy with his chemistry equipment, and shrugged. “I have little better to do, and we might as well have something else to occupy our minds with. Show him into the room, then, and if you wouldn’t mind, some tea as well?” Mrs Hudson nodded, looking no less disconcerted. “What name did he give you? I doubt very much if he’s anyone I know, but I suppose I should hear it anyway.”_ _

__“He said,” Mrs Hudson began, lips pursing inward, “that his name was Sebastian. No last name given.” I raised a brow._ _

__“Well, I very much do not know anyone by that name who would come calling so casually. Perhaps this will be interesting indeed. Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he said, and, sensing the dismissal, she retreated back through the door and down the stairs, shaking her head._ _

__“Do you truly not know anyone by that name?” I asked, looking over. “There doesn’t seem to be any reason for a visitor to lie about such a thing. It would be far easier for him to refuse to give a name at all.”_ _

__“I very much agree, doctor, which is why I find this all so interesting,” he said, and brushed his hands off before grabbing the dressing down he’d hung on a peg by the fire. “However, you’ll note that I said that I do not know anyone by that name who would come calling so casually. There are several men I know called Sebastian, most of them criminals, and none of them able to visit without something significant moving them to do so. This, then, could prove to be absolutely the most interesting thing that has happened today.” That, I could imagine, and looked forward to it in any case. Anyone who knew Holmes was, as far as I knew, a rarity; someone to be watched as closely as possible for information about my still-mysterious companion._ _

__The sound of two pairs of footsteps on the stairs, one immediately recognizable as Mrs Hudson’s, and the other light—the sort of rapid thud-thud-thud that spoke of eagerness. The case, for surely someone out and about, asking for Holmes with this amount of excitement must have a case, whatever he’d said, must be important indeed. I fancied it might be about the lords, and I was right—but any thought of that disappeared from my head as the door swung opened, and I caught sight of my companion’s face._ _

__Only rarely have I seen Holmes surprised at all, let alone as surprised as he was when Mrs Hudson escorted our visitor upstairs. The man who followed in after her was fully as tall as the detective—perhaps taller. It was difficult to tell, as he peeked and peered around the room, constantly moving, just as Mrs Hudson had said, as though he’d never seen anything at all like our little sitting room. His face, too, shown with borderline glee, his glimmering, hazel eyes narrowed in delight as he grinned at Holmes, a line of very even, white teeth peering out between full lips, his skin tanned enough that I suspected his place of origin as India, perhaps, or even further south. His squared, firm jaw and high cheekbones were offset by stubble, the same dark brown as his hair, pulled into a strange, loose bun at the nape of his neck. The affect was altogether odd, made even odder by the clothing—a pair of dark trousers and a dark shirt, normal enough, but the fabric didn’t seem to hang right, its drape and heaviness far different than my own suit. No jacket. Poorly dressed. The leather satchel he carried looked out of place as well, too fine for someone so meanly attired. But even that paled in comparison to Holmes’ reaction, the way his eyes widened and his lips parted as though he’d seen a ghost._ _

__“Sebastian!” he exclaimed, starting toward the man. “What the devil are you doing here?” he asked, voice pitching up in a tone as shocked as the look on his face. “How did you—”_ _

__“Hah! I knew you’d be surprised to see me!” The man’s voice was as pleasant as his face; just as delighted as his grin. Even, educated accent—definitely from somewhere in the Empire, then, though I couldn’t exactly place where. “I’ve come to see you in a professional capacity, of course! It’s very exciting, I hope you don’t mind me just popping round without an invite. Had no idea how to get ahold of you, y’see.”_ _

__Holmes appeared to be struck speechless by that, another first. “Well,” Mrs Hudson broke in, glancing between Holmes and his visitor with an arched brow. “If that’s the case, then I suppose I shall bring you all some tea.”_ _

__“That would be lovely. Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” I said, and the visitor’s gaze snapped to me. Ordinarily, someone so very pleased over nothing at all in particular would read to me as suspicious: but, as he turned to look at me, his expression lit up with such genuine friendliness that I couldn’t help but smile in return._ _

__He walked over, extending a hand. “Hello!” he said, and I stood, not quite able to meet him for enthusiasm but moved to try nevertheless. “You’re his doctor friend, aren’t you, Doctor Wil—Wat—”_ _

__“Watson,” Holmes supplied. He’d leaned back against the table, one arm folded across his chest and his other hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is Doctor Watson.”_ _

__“Ah! Right, apologies, it’s been a minute since I read your stories,” the visitor said, and shook my hand. His grip was solid as rock, fingers long and delicate, and I blinked. “I’m Sebastian, came to visit—”_ _

__“Sebastian Bright,” Holmes interrupted with a sigh. “This is Sebastian Bright.”_ _

__“You’ve read those?” I asked, unable to stop myself. I’d met few readers of my stories thus far—none of them as enthusiastic as all this, and I blinked, surprised as he nodded._ _

__“Oh of course,” Mr Bright said, turning away to grin at the fireplace. “Very popular, those stories.” Suspicious or not, he was, apparently, prone to flattery. “Are you writing one right now? Which one, did I interrupt?” he glanced toward the paper, and then the Lancet at the floor, brows going up as he turned toward the chemistry set. “Oh, I must’ve, I’m terribly sorry. Wouldn’t have come except that it’s an emergency, and anyway, you can’t be that busy, Holmes.” He wandered toward the table, leaning over it just in front of Holmes, who looked like a cat who’s supper had been interrupted. I would not have been surprised to hear him hiss. “What’re you—oh, I see what you’re doing. Do you want me to tell you the answer?” Mr Bright looked up at Holmes, with a grin that had turned teasing, revealing two dimples on either side of his lips. All energy, this one, and I could not imagine that he and the detective got on at all._ _

__“No. No I do not want you to tell me the answer.” Holmes opened his eyes and gestured toward an empty chair, raising a brow and looking at me with a gesture of helpless irritation. Torn between amusement at his expression and curiosity at what had caused it, I only shrugged, watching as Mr Bright sat in the chair nearest the fire, one leg crossed over the other knee, leaning toward Holmes. “I want you to tell me what’s brought you here, actually. You said you wanted to speak to me in a professional capacity? I fail to see how I can be any use to you at all—”_ _

__Mr Bright ignored him, looking up from the table and turning back to me, glancing once more at the piles of paper and journals at my side. He wore, I observed, a pair of gloves, and despite the warmth of the room, he’d made no move to take either off. He noticed me watching, catching my eye and pulling the jacket he wore tighter around his torso. “What case did you just publish?” he asked, to me, apparently, tilting his head and looking me up and down. “For the stories, I mean.”_ _

__“I thought you’d read them,” I asked, some of the suspicion that had been allayed by his genial appearance returning._ _

__He blinked. “Some of them,” he said, smile fading. “Not all of them. And it’s been a bit; terrible memory, I’ve got.”_ _

__“We recently settled an issue for a Miss Mary Morstan,” Holmes broke in, leaning against the table still. He hadn’t sat down, and continued staring at Mr Bright with the same expression that I’d seen leveled at snakes and spiders; at the most vicious and intelligent of all our combined criminals. As though, in short, Mr Bright were dangerous, and though he certainly seemed suspect to me, the wiry, gawking man in front of me did not strike me as one to fight. Though, I supposed, neither did Holmes, for someone not acquainted with him. I narrowed my eyes. “A treasure, which unfortunately found its way into the river.”_ _

__“Hm. Oh!” Mr Bright straightened, corners of his lips curling as the smile returned. “You’re engaged, now, aren’t you, I think I remember reading something about that in the papers? Congratulations, glad the situation worked out so well, etcetera.”_ _

__“Does that clarify things?” Holmes asked. A strange way of asking it, but some sort of understanding passed between the two men, and my suspicions hit a peak. They did know each other—there was something between them, some sort of history that I was not party to._ _

__“Yes, extremely,” Mr Bright said, and looked up at Holmes. “Thank you.”_ _

__“Thank me by telling me what you’re doing here,” he advised, finally taking a seat at the chair next to me. “I can’t imagine what could have brought you all the way.”_ _

__“Right. Well.” Mr Bright coughed, and paused in speaking for the longest he had since walking in the door. A little red came into his ears. “I’m not quite sure how to do this, actually. There’s a lot, and summing up is…hm.”_ _

__“Start at the beginning,” I suggested, feeling somewhat more at home. This, at least, was a familiar dance with our clients, going back and forth between the uncertainty of baring themselves before us and the desire to have their problems resolved. “That does seem to be the best place.”_ _

__A little smile flickered on Mr Bright’s face, much different than his earlier enthusiasm. “Right then. Let’s start with this.” He opened the satchel he carried and pulled out a small bag, made of the same dark fabric as his shirt. He untied the top and from inside it, plucked a gold ring, thick and glimmering. “Does this look at all familiar?” He tossed it to Holmes, first, who caught it in one hand, brow raised. As he flattened his palm, the emblem on the front of it caught my eye: a hare and a hart, entwined in a heraldic symbol._ _

__“A signet ring,” I said at once, prodding the thing until it rolled over in Holmes’ palm. It looked so bright as to be almost unused, glimmering in the lights of the room. “A new one, appears to be.”_ _

__“The heraldry of the Earl of Dudley,” Holmes said, looking at me with his brow spiking higher. “Didn’t you say this morning that he was the father of one of the missing boys?”_ _

__“I did.” From beside me I pulled up the paper and flipped to the page with the article. Next to it was printed a small photograph of the boy in question, presumably from his school days, looking at the camera with a serious frown. “Percy Anthony. Third son, twenty three years of age. Had just returned from a tour of the Continent.” I looked up at Mr Bright, frowning at the pallor that had settled on his features. “Where did you get this?”_ _

__Instead of answering, Mr Bright pulled a second item from the pouch: a pipe, looking just as new as the ring had. “Five bodies have washed up on the shores of the village I live in. Dragged in by the river, you understand,” he said, and handed the pipe over to Holmes. “It took a couple for the authorities to see it as anything other than coincidence. None of them had any possessions except for the most recent, who had both that ring and this pipe hidden on his person.”_ _

__“This is almost identical to the pipe Watson got me for Christmas,” Holmes muttered, and I looked at him sidelong. I had not yet found a time to give him that present, and made a note in my head to, perhaps, return it for something else. “This is most certainly from here. From London, I mean. The craftsmanship….” He ran a finger down the wood, and then passed it to me, looking up at Bright. A little serpent of unease uncurled in my belly at how very concerned he looked as he shook his head. “Certainly fit for the son of a Earl.”_ _

__“How did you come upon these items, if they were found on a corpse?” I asked, holding the thing in my hand. Heavy—expensive indeed. Probably more expensive than the one I had purchased, with a stark ivory inlay. Also unused, without a trace of anything in the bowl. “Are you affiliated with the police, Mr Bright?”_ _

__“Oh, er. No. I acquired them when it became clear that the authorities were not taking the situation seriously,” he said, and steepled his fingers._ _

__“Acquired them,” I repeated, and glanced at my companion. That did not sound at all aboveboard. “What is your interest in these disappearances then, Mr Bright?” I asked. “Do you know any of the parties involved?”_ _

__“Not exactly,” he said, and looked up at Holmes. “It’s a bit of a long story, actually. As I said, some of the victims have ended up, well. I’m not from London, you understand—or rather, I am from London, but I don’t live here, at present,” he said, gesturing with one hand as he fiddled with the fastenings of his bag. “I’m on the Continent, a small town in France. And about six weeks ago, a body washed up on our shores. No one paid it much attention, nor did they pay much attention to the second, and honestly the people in charge didn’t even pay attention with the third.” Mr Bright tossed the smaller bag aside, pulling out a small sheaf of paper from his satchel. A series of neatly typewritten sheets, and he handed it to Holmes. “But something’s not right about it. I want you to find out what.”_ _

__My friend took the pages, raising a brow and glancing over it with a look of trepidation mixed with excitement. I admit, I shared the feeling, and it doubled as the contents were revealed. Each sheet seemed to hold details of the crimes—information about the bodies, about how they were found and what condition they were in. In decent detail—I glanced up at Mr Bright, my brow going higher._ _

__“I’ve…got a friend on the police force,” he said, and I would have suspected him of lying if that weren’t the most likely explanation. Holmes handed me the papers and leaned back, steepling his fingers and staring at Mr Bright._ _

__“Do you know the cause of death?” Holmes asked, but I hardly paid attention. The papers I’d been handed were the finest I’d ever felt, thin and even, and the ink of the typewriter darker than I’d seen. Bright, I thought, must be a wealthy man to afford such fineries, and I took a second look at him as he answered Holmes’ question._ _

__“Poison.” Mr Bright leaned closer, looking up at both of us with a wrinkle between his brows. The smile had long sense gone, replaced by a tightness around his eyes that I recognized as fear. Nothing else I could deduce, save for the fear, and the way he stared at the detective. I’d seen the expression before on clients: wanting an answer, any answer, other than the one they had already figured out themselves. “It was poison. None had any identification. Only one had any sort of wounds.”_ _

__“Describe him,” Holmes ordered._ _

__Bright shifted in the chair, wiping his palms on his knees and licking his lips. “He’s on the fourth page there. Blond. Dark brown eyes. Scar across his forehead.”_ _

__Holmes glanced at me, and then at the paper. “That sounds,” I said slowly, considering the articles, “like it could be the son of the Earl of Devonshire. He was a boxer in his spare time,” I said, and shook my head. “Rumor has it, he ran through most of his inheritance a the amateur rings. He the first to go—months ago, now. And he was certainly in London last anyone had heard from him.”_ _

__“Yeah. That’s…that’s what I was afraid of.” Mr Bright combed one still-gloved hand through his hair._ _

__“Then we’ll need to go immediately to France,” I said, half-excitement and half-disappointment._ _

__“No, no,” Mr Bright said immediately, shaking his head. “No. The lads—they weren’t killed by the river. They were dumped, you see, there’s no blood, no sign of any disturbance. Nothing. No one saw anything, of course, but they weren’t killed there, and the bodies are gone, in any case. No point to it.”_ _

__“They were taken from here,” Holmes said, looking up from the sheets. Some undefined upset tightened his expression, and my heart began to pound. Only rarely had I seen my companion frightened in any measure. Still more rare was fear before the case had even begun. Something about the arrival of this Bright had triggered it, I felt sure, and dread uncoiled within me._ _

__He nodded, jaw tense. “And that’s why I’m here. I need you to find out why.”_ _


	4. Come to me, said the World

A knock from Mrs Hudson disrupted the tension, the click of the tea service sounding outside the corridor. Mr Bright’s smile returned, and he fixed it on our landlady as she arrived, whatever distress his expression had held melting away. She did not seem at all charmed by it, setting down the pot and disappearing with a nod to Holmes and myself. I poured, and Holmes sorted through the pages, brows knitting together as he poured over the lines of text. Though the description of each body may be detailed, it would be no substitute, I knew, for him actually being there. Nor was it more useful than testimony from someone else who had actually be there. Bright did not qualify, I thought, no matter whether or not he had a friend who did. 

“This—this is what tipped you off, I presume?” Holmes asked, looking up at Mr Bright and holding the ring up between his fingers. “It looks almost unused—none of the telltale wax caught in the designs, or scratching along the inside edge.” He grabbed a magnifying glass from his chemistry table and held the glimmering ring up to the light, looking through his glass and then, with a raised brow, staring at Mr Bright. “Did you clean this?”

“I did not, no.” He shifted in the chair, brow knitting together. “I think there might have been wax when I first found it—but it fell out. Didn’t bring it with me.”

“Where did you find the ring? On the victim’s hands?” Holmes asked. I slid a cup across the table to Mr Bright and he nodded at me, then took a sip, before his nose wrinkled up and he set the cup down with a clatter. I raised my brows at him, and Mr Bright shook his head, like a dog when it smelled something sharp. 

“Bit hotter than I was expecting,” he said, wrinkling his nose again. I blinked, uncertain of what else he could be expecting. “Sorry, erm. Right, no, he wasn’t wearing it." He ran his gloved fingertip along the rim of the cup's handle, nervous fingers tapping. "He’d sort of sewn it into the lapel of the jacket he was wearing. The pipe, though, that was in his pocket. Nothing else, though. No tobacco, of course, so not sure what he was planning on doing with it. The pipe’s what sealed it for me, though; couldn’t make much of it myself, but I thought you might be able to figure it out. It’s all there in the stuff I gave you.”

“Well, the ring ought to have sealed it for you; that’s very certainly the crest of one of the families who’s children disappeared. This was all any of them had? Nothing else?” Holmes flicked through the papers again, as though he’d missed something in the slim stack.

“Nothing else,” Bright said, and grabbed for his tea again, shifting in his chair. “As I said—no identification. Nothing at all to show who they were. Bodies were written off as vagrants and burned.” 

“Burned!” I exclaimed, and Mr Bright turned, frowning as he stared over his teacup.

“Of course. One of them at least had traces of smallpox—we could see the scars on his face—and we didn’t want to take the risk of infection, since we couldn’t tell how recent it was.” Mr Bright shrugged again. “Better safe than sorry. And anyway, no one saw any particular reason to keep them around if they were unidentified.” 

“But they’re clearly not vagrants—not if they had gold rings and pipes like that!”

“Wasn’t my decision.” Mr Bright raised a brow and sipped his tea, fixing me with a stare that seemed more intense than I’d first considered. “I knew something about the situation wasn’t right, which is why I’m here. But I’m certainly not in any position to challenge official rulings like that.”

“You sound as though you tried,” Holmes said exactly what I’d been thinking, though I couldn’t account for the amusement in his voice, and Mr Bright sighed, leaning back in the chair, away from the table. He stared at the both of us, lips twisting up into a wry sort of grimace.

“Of course I did. So did my friend. Obviously. But this is the most I can do about it, and that’s quite a lot, considering.” He sounded, I thought, bitter, and I might have asked more, but Holmes interrupted, tsking as he turned one of the papers over. More writing there, I thought, and it amounted to a lot of information, all told. Curious. 

“What do you do, Mr Bright, that you’re so intimately involved in the crime of your home without necessarily having the correct access to it?” I asked. It had occurred to me that he’d not said, and while I supposed it didn’t truly matter, the expression that came over his face, lips going tighter and eyes narrowing, told me that the answer mattered to him. 

“I’m an inventor,” he said. “I dabble in all sorts of things; manage to do well enough to live by. Nothing particularly interesting, all told. I only know about the cases through my friend—and decided to stick my nose into the business when it became clear that the authorities wouldn’t be taking any second looks.” 

“You’ll need to give me as much information as you can about where they were found and what they might have been doing there.” Holmes interrupted whatever follow up question I might have asked and held up the paper, wrong-way forward. On it was indeed a series of spidery notes, but the handwriting was so scribbled and smeared that it was barely legible. I doubt I could have read it, and Holmes raised a brow at Mr Bright, lips pressed together. “This, I’m afraid, does not help.”

“Oh.” Mr Bright blinked, the tips of his ears turning red. “Right. Well, I don’t have a lot—just a few maybe-theories, but they’ve all got holes, and even if they didn’t, I don’t know how we prove them without bodies. I’d rather we just figure out where they’re coming from so we can keep more of them from showing up?”

“The police don’t have any leads?” Holmes asked, reaching for a cigarette. 

Mr Bright frowned harder, specifically looking at the cigarette. Holmes raised a single brow, an expression that I’d seen before on his face: he dared Mr Bright to say something about it, some private challenge that got jotted down on a list of questions I’d ask the very next time I was able to discuss with my friend privately. “Right, well, not exactly. Or so I’ve heard. They’re not exactly investigating with any enthusiasm. Every one of them was found in a different spot, close to the shore, dumped overnight in foggy conditions, so different people found them. No one heard or saw anything, which isn’t surprising because it’s a terrible part of town. Not an uncommon spot for ill-doings, y’see. So not only were different people assigned the cases at first, because they think all of the lads were vagrants, aren’t exactly doing a lot to figure it out. But I figured with the pipe and the ring, you might know better, since they definitely came from here. I just sort of sneaked off with everything and hoped you might know better.”

Holmes sighed, and shook his head. “Watson, are you certain these are the men who were reported missing? I imagine the newspaper had their likenesses.” He passed the stack once more to me, and I reached down with one hand to get that morning’s paper. In the middle of the article, the author had inserted a photo of the most recently missing, and I held it aloft, the pages in my lap.

“Brownish hair, with dark brown eyes. A cleft chin, and pox-scars across his face, half-healed.” I pointed at the picture in the paper, showing exactly that. “Relatively certain,” I said dryly, and Holmes tsked. 

“Well, nothing for it, I suppose,” he said as I tossed the papers back to the table. “We’ll need to talk to the parents first. Starting with the most recent disappearance and working our way backwards. It’s more likely they’ll remember something that way.”

“If their children are dead…” I began, hesitant, and Holmes shook his head.

“I don’t doubt Mr Bright’s recollection of the events, but I would much rather not be the bearer of such news without more solid proof than some prints on paper,” he said. “No offense intended, Mr Bright.” 

“Oh. None taken, I suppose,” he said, smile flickering back across his face. “It’s more than a bit weird, the whole thing, I don’t exactly blame you.” 

“Very good. Watson—are you—” Holmes started, and I shook my head. “Ah. Yes, Miss Morstan this afternoon, correct? Discussions of where to live post-marriage, unless I miss my guess.”

I had long ago grown used to Holmes’ habit of seeming to read my thoughts—and while I was not uninterested in hearing how, exactly, he had arrived at that chain, the sound of the bell downstairs interrupted any possibility of it. “I believe that’s her now,” I said. “I shall be gone for an hour and a quarter, perhaps—”

“We’ll wait,” Holmes said, gaze flicking over to our visitor, and then back to me. One of his rare smiles lit up his features, and he shook his head. “I would be lost without you, my dear doctor, and most especially now—you’ve been keeping up with this particular set of circumstances, better than I have, even so immersed in other situations as you’ve been. Your help would be most invaluable, if you can spare the time.”

“An hour and a quarter, then,” I said, smiling in return. I gathered my gloves and my hat, and nodded at Mr Bright, unable to discern what, exactly, had brought such a smile back to his face. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Bright. I do hope we’re able to help ease your mind on this.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said. That same firm handshake, unyielding, and then I left, traipsing down the stairs to join my bride to be. 

“So they know each other?” Mary asked. She’d tucked her hand in the crook of my elbow, leaning toward me against the wind. Though the worst of the weather had passed, winter still had its occasional outburst, bringing flurries of snow and cold winds. Slush decorated the grass just outside of the path, and chill blusters sent the feather in Mary’s hat to spinning. Nevertheless, we had decided upon a potential location for our search for a house; she had already settled the list of guests and I found myself recounting the morning to her, eager to pass along what I’d seen. “But from where? School, perhaps?”

“I am not entirely sure—Holmes has always been very reticent on the subject of his schooling,” I said, shaking my head. “And they hadn’t seen each other in long enough that when he arrived, Holmes didn’t think him a possible candidate. Surely school hasn’t been so very long ago for either of them.” I’d no idea how old Mr Bright was, come to think of it: he looked younger than myself and potentially younger than Holmes, though pinpointing an exact age seemed difficult, with how enthusiastic he was.

“That could be due to distance, though, my dear,” Mary pointed out, squeezing my arm. “Where in France did he say he lived? Near the coast, if the bodies were drawn in by the tides. Poor lads,” she said, with a little sigh. 

I shook my head, replaying the conversation and frowning. “He wasn’t particularly clear on that, either. In fact, the only things he were clear on were his first name, that he wasn’t from London—or rather, that he didn’t live here—and that he was an inventor. Other than that…” I trailed off, flicking a bit of snow out of my mustache. Mary stifled her laughter, and I wrinkled my nose at her. “He didn’t even give his last name, not at first.”

“Bright—That is a very funny sort of last name, isn’t it?” my fiance muttered, walking around a particularly large patch of ice. “It sounds,” she declared, “false. A false name—given by—”

“It would had to have been given by Holmes,” I said, and shook my head. I hadn’t got the sense that he was lying—nor had I gotten the sense that Bright himself was lying, not exactly. Not giving us all the information, almost certainly, but not lying. “I don’t think it’s a false name, my dear. Though I admit, it is strange.” His tanned skin, looking colored by nature and not by the sun, sparked in my mind. “He looks to be of mixed ancestry—the name could be strange indeed, then, from somewhere else entirely. Made easier to pronounce, perhaps?” 

“Well. I suppose that makes sense. And it could be a name he chose himself—inventors, they’re peculiar sorts anyway, aren’t they?” she reasoned. “How was he dressed? How successful of an inventor could he be, if no one’s ever heard of him?” 

“Not all inventors are motivated by fame,” I said, and considered whether or not I could actually name any inventors. Perhaps one. Maybe two, at a stretch. “He was dressed strangely,” I settled upon. “Fine fabric, but unusual. You would know better than I do, I suspect. And he had lovely, well-made gloves, but left them on the whole time.” 

“Really?” Mary perked up, lips twisting as she thought. Holmes had said, after I had announced our engagement, that Mary had a certain, steady sense to her—saving important things, showing no fear in the face of grisly circumstances. He had the right of it, but her intelligence went beyond that. Sometimes, I thought her tolerance for my adventures with Holmes rested primarily on her interest in the cases themselves, and I made quite sure to note every detail, as much for my writing as my Mary. “Maybe he’s been disfigured,” she guessed. “Inventors work with their hands. Maybe caught in gears, or stained with acid.”

Considering the blotches on Holmes’ own fingers, that seemed like a fair supposition, and I told her so, smiling into my muffler at the pleased look on her face. “If he’s still there when we return, you could come up to meet him, if you wished. I don’t doubt that he’d be pleased by it. He seems pleased by everything else.”

“A cheerful inventor then?” she said, and I laughed. “I would love to, darling, but I’m afraid I have to get back to my students. I’m still a governess, technically, until we’ve married, and I do wish to make my last months at least somewhat productive.”

“Ah, I understand,” I said, only mildly disappointed. I doubted Holmes would have appreciated it in any case.

“I would rather you go off and try to solve the case,” she reasoned, squeezing closer to me to pass a puddle. “Those poor parents, even if they are quite removed from it, must be missing their children terribly. Do you really think they’re dead?” she asked, and some of her thirst for adventure quenched in the face of her kindness, her wide, blue eyes looking up at me. 

My heart lurched, and I considered lying, as much to put her mind at ease as to keep her from the worst of such facts of my cases. As she stared, though, I couldn’t find it within me to do so and I shook my head, thinking of how very certain Bright seemed. “I do think so, yes,” I answered. “Though I couldn’t say how, and I couldn’t say why.”

“Then that’s what you must figure out. You, and your Holmes, and this strange Mr Bright.” She squeezed my arm again, and we talked of other things, conversation drifting away from the macabre and back to the matrimonial. 

When I returned, I half-expected them to have left, whatever Holmes had said about waiting. He was not, as I have demonstrated, inclined to patience, and I would not have been surprised to find them gone. To the parents, perhaps, or to some other sight of investigation that Holmes had decided upon. Or maybe they would be catching up: if they truly knew each other, it had to have been some time since they had spoken. But as I ascended the stairs after kissing Mary’s cheek, her warm hand in mine for one more moment before we parted for the week, I could hear the squeak of floorboards and the shuffle of paper. I opened the door to find Holmes once more bent over his chemistry set, face knit in a frown. Mr Bright had remained in his chair, and a selection of the _Lancets_ I’d left circled him like a fairy ring, as though he’d gone through one after another. As I walked in, he dropped another in place, a grin stretching his lips. It faded as he saw me, and he looked down at the papers around him with a guilty sort of look on his face.

“I hope you don’t mind me borrowing them,” he said. He had, I saw, kept the gloves on. “I’ve got a friend who’s a doctor, and I thought he might be interested in hearing about it. He’s not really what you’d call the scholarly type.” He rolled his eyes, as though considering this doctor friend and dismissing his lack of academic interest as a flaw. 

I might have asked for more information—and Mr Bright, looking friendly as ever, might have given it—but Holmes looked up, glancing over my appearance with one of those razer-sharp looks. “You settled things with Miss Morstan, then?” he asked. “Favorably, it seems likely.” 

“Of course,” I said, quirking a brow at him. “And you’re no closer to finding the answer to your little chemistry puzzle?”

He didn’t respond, but the little snicker that Mr Bright let slip gave me the answer. I turned my expression on him, and he shook his head, returning to the journal he had on his lap. “Not even close,” he muttered, raising both brows and flipping through the pages. 

“We ought to go speak to…who was it? Which Earl?” Holmes asked, setting the pipette in his hands down with a little click and specifically not looking over at Bright. 

I was certain he knew the answer, but I grabbed for the paper and glanced through the article regardless, double checking. “Earl of Dudley,” I said. “He has a house in London, I believe.”

“Ah. A smaller family, recently caught up in the financial woes that seem to have struck many of the noble houses,” Holmes said, extricating himself from his dressing gown and returning it to the peg in preparation to go out. “I believe the head of the house remarried some ten months back—a woman much younger than himself, if I recall.”

“I do believe there was some gossip about that topic, yes,” I said. I hadn’t paid attention, consumed as I was with more practical matters, and though the papers had mentioned it in passing it hadn’t proved to be quite the scandal the rumormongers had hoped for. The couple had married quietly and lived comfortably, but without any of the excess that might have resulted from such a match. The Duke’s business continued undeterred, and the woman he married had settled into respectability without a hitch, leading a charity drive and hosting dinners. 

“Well, we go there first, then,” Holmes said, rubbing his hands together. Whatever trepidation he had relating to the case’s introducer had disappeared in the face of action, and I smiled, the eagerness of helping bring someone to justice thrilling my blood. “I assume you know where we’re most likely to find the unhappy family?”

“I do.” I had, in fact, asked Mary, who’s knowledge of the city’s titled residents resulted from a natural curiosity combined with a secret love of gossip. It ought not to have endeared her to me as much as it did. 

“Then hail us a cab, my dear doctor, and we’ll crack on,” he said, swirling a jacket around his shoulders and a scarf around his neck.

“Um.” Mr Bright raised a hand from where he still sat, looking wide-eyed at the pair of us. “What’m I supposed to do, then? Do you want me to stick around here? Or I could come with you,” he said, obviously preferring the latter option to the former. He half-stood, the journal falling from his lap to the floor. “I don’t mind, and I won’t say anything, nothing at all—”

“Wait here,” Holmes said firmly, raising a brow. “Finish reading the _Lancets_ , assuming the doctor doesn’t mind?” I shook my head, resisting the urge to laugh at the look of immediate disappointment on Mr Bright’s face, his plush lips frowning and his brows drawing together. “You will only get in the way, and this must be done delicately, Bright. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I suppose,” he grumbled, and resumed his spot, picking up the journal as he did. 

“Don’t touch anything,” Holmes said, pointing with a firm finger. “Not the chemistry set. Not the fire. Nothing.”

“I won’t touch your damned chemistry set,” Mr Bright grumbled again, finding his place in the journal and not looking up. “You’re nowhere close to the right answer, anyway.” Holmes’ jaw set, but he ignored it, looking toward me with his lips pressed thin and a spark of irritation on his face. He did not appreciate such teasing, I suspected, but Mr Bright either didn’t realize or didn’t care, curling closer to the arm of the chair and looking up only as he almost reached the door. “Oi, wait, actually should I go try and find a hotel or someplace to stay?” he asked, and I blinked, glancing at the little bag he held between his feet. I’d assumed he’d already found a place—that bag did not look large enough to bring much, if any, clothing. “If this is going to take more than a day, that is.”

“I’m sure Mrs Hudson could find you a bed, if you wished to stay here,” I offered, but Mr Bright stood, wrinkling up his nose.

“No, no, wouldn’t want to put you out. Or her out. I’m sure there’s, erm. A hotel, something. Somewhere. I dunno, where would you recommend?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking over at Holmes with his brows tipped up at the corners.

He sighed, tipping his head back and looking so explicitly annoyed that I snorted. Holmes went to his desk and scribbled something down, handing the paper off to Bright. “There. That should suit your purposes. I assume you have a way to pay?”

“Of course, I’m not entirely stupid,” Mr Bright responded, taking the note and raising a brow. “Though, erm.” He held it up, Holmes’ cursive looking neat as ever, and his ears began to redden again. “Could you just…maybe point me the way? I’ve never been here before, Holmes, you can’t expect me to know where any of this is.” 

Another sigh, and Holmes drew closer to the window, gesturing for Bright to follow. “Look, do you see that bus?” he said, pulling the curtain aside and nodding. “You’ll get on that, and it’ll take you towards this hotel,” he said, pointing at the note. “I’m certain you can handle that.”

“Well, I suppose can or I can’t, nothing else to do about it,” Bright said with a smile, tucking the paper away in a pocket and grabbing his satchel. “Just don’t forget those papers; the family can match the description, yeah?”

“I think it would be best if we didn’t go showing those around too widely, yet,” Holmes said. “I suggest you keep those safe, with you, actually. I’ve got what I needed from them, for now, and as we’re certain the bodies are the same as the disappeared…” he shrugged. “No need to put that much information out, no yet. I would rather hear from the families first.” 

“Ah well, whatever you think. I trust your experience,” Mr Bright said, and reached out to the pile. He gathered them back together and grabbed for his bag, still locked at his feet. “Good luck, gentlemen. Hope it all goes well.” He left with a smile, white teeth flashing, and Holmes frowned after him. I grabbed my jacket and we followed after, Holmes’ face looking no less tense.


	5. Interlude 1

Lis curled tighter into the corner of the hovel, peering over the punched out hole that served as a window. Nothing moved in the Undercity. Not even the dust, which seemed to permeate everything at once. It crusted over the goggles she wore, thick as noodle soup. Only the occasional brush of her bicep to knock away the worst of it kept her from being blinded entirely. It found its way into the creases of her uniform, neat lines of grey against the black, and into the line dividing her hood from her mask. Everywhere. Constant. A reminder of the city’s age, and how much had been destroyed, lost or ruined. 

Her legs ached, sitting for so long, but according to the search grid she’d put together this would be the most likely place for another body dump. The first one had happened within view, and she could spy on both spots at once, just in case whoever was doing it broke pattern and went back to a previous dumping ground. Or maybe they’d be something left, from when the bodies had just started showing up. Didn’t seem likely, but the whole situation seemed unlikely, when she thought about it. Five bodies and no witnesses? None at all? Fuck off with that, she thought, stretching one leg and then the other. Both knees cracked, and protested as she crossed her legs back in front of her. No point to wondering about it—best just focus on preventing it. That first spot was the only one she knew for certain—the only GPS tag she’d been able to pull from the files. The rest had gone missing, and it had made her stomach squirm, for reasons that she’d tried not to think about. 

Another waft of air from the river flooded her mask, and she held down the urge to gag. Psychosomatic, probably: she couldn’t actually smell the river, such as it was. Hundreds of years of pollution clogged it, and only the power it produced kept the Corp heads from drying it up entirely. It was an eyesore—and a nosesore—but a useful one, and so the Undercity kept moving. The dregs of London drifted down here, the ghosts and the vagues and everyone else without a name or a number, congregating in the half-burned houses and the remains of stone structures. Dust covered the insides, any decoration or furniture long sense rotted away. Everything here stretched back to an earlier time, the 50s maybe, all brick and hard. None of the gleaming neon or glass from the upper spires of London; none of the brightness. Fog choked whatever remained, and Lis tightened the mask around her face. Didn’t want to breathe any of it in if she could help it—might not hurt her, but it’d stay in her lungs and skin for weeks, providing a neat hole punched in the body of her Beverly Shore alibi. She’d promised Vic that she’d go off and have some fun, well. Her cover of flying spur of the moment to NewCali probably qualified. Diving on the remains of old Hollywood; an underwater hotel near the edge of the Santa Monica mountains. All perfectly hedonistic; expensive beyond her means and therefore believable. Just need to get Lysander to fake a tan when she figured it out. With her gone the power outages might actually hit the apartment, and Lis winced, thinking of the scolding that would doubtless welcome her. 

In the days since she’d arrived in the Undercity, she’d seen living things twice. A savver, once, his envirosuit keeping the worst of the dust out and allowing for almost as much freedom of movement as Lis herself had. The burned out husk of what might have been a bank allowed for a perfect hiding spot, and he’d passed by without so much as peeping in. Rumors said there were spare parts left for the taking in the twilight here, but Lis had never put much stock in it. Apparently at least some people didn’t think the whole place had already been picked clean and back, but she hadn’t seen another scavver, so who knew. Hard to tell from such a small sample size. Didn’t matter anyway: she told herself she wasn’t there to solve the mysteries of the Undercity, she only wanted to check the bodies. Lis hefted her shoulder to her temple, scrubbing away more dust. 

The only other human she’d seen had been one of the vagues, a ghost from the surface, maybe. She’d been wearing an evo-suit too, a bit beraggled but still mostly whole. Whole enough to keep her safe, anyway, from the air that was just the wrong side of toxic and the heat that the weathernets belched out. Fog from the mingled exhalations of the river and the breath of the weathernets made nasty, awful-smelling curls that stretched on as far as Lis could see. Even if the toxicity wasn’t enough to cause her any damage, the whole situation made her wonder how the ghosts existed down there, isolated from everyone but each other any seemingly any tech at all. The first night (day? It was hard to tell) she’d been there, Lis had turned on the EMS detector on her goggles, looking for a sign of any other tech. Nothing, as far as she could tell. Switching to IR revealed little puddles of humanity, a couple of vagues (hopefully) in the hovel next to her and one two more buildings down. But there they stayed, presumably making lives out of the scraps they could find. Animals still lived down here, that she knew, but their health was questionable at best, and Lis had spent the last two days wondering, with an acuteness that belied its place in the far in the back of her brain, if the rest of the city hadn’t done the people down here a disservice by forgetting about them. Purges had been outlawed, and instead New London turned a blind eye to those who’d had their identities removed. Any programs to help them had long been cut, before Lis could read or maybe even walk, and as PoliSec she sure hadn’t come into contact with any of the vagues. Even as a Zonie, she’d avoided them, not wanting to stumble into a confrontation. Maybe, if this got solved, it would bring attention to the problem. It’d probably be the wrong kind; another purge would result, and Lis would feel terribly about it for at least a week before the problem sunk back into the seemingly depthless waters of all her worries. Survival, and her family’s survival, had to come first—no matter how the guilt pricked, and how much time in the clubs she spent, trying to chase it away. She abandoned the idea. 

Lis wrinkled her nose and brushed the dust away from her lenses. No point to thinking about that, or Vic, or anything else. It was almost time for another drone flight, anyway, looking for the slightest hint of anything or anyone that might be dumping the bodies. 

Another crack sounded in the vault as she stretched her legs again. One foot under her, than the other, and she walked into the gathering grey. Must be night topside. The skyscrapers would be ablaze with neon and lasers, each one a different playground for anyone so inclined. She missed the _Balloon_ and their old-time karaoke machines, and shoved that missing aside as she pulled the cowl of her jacket up around her face. The sides were just gauzy-transparent enough that she didn’t lose all her peripheral vision, but she kept low to the ground nevertheless. No telling when someone might approach, and it wouldn’t do to be caught down here when she was supposed to be in NewCali. Camera drones hovered just above her—she couldn’t see them in the gloom, but knew well enough they were there. She’d seen the vid feeds for the nights the bodies had shown up after all, devoid of any clues. Each body had simply appeared, whatever tech the dumper had used to keep them invisible fading away. Miltech, Lis thought when she’d first seen it. She’d shoved that thought aside quick as the thoughts of the vagues. PoliSec would have heard of any theft of military tech—she would have heard of it—and if it hadn’t been theft, well. Lis shook her head and walked faster. 

The dust puffed up with each step, and she frowned beneath the mask. Even if she had an InvisiBall, it’d be impossible to hide the clouds. Location’d be obvious to anyone looking, and Lis huffed loud enough that she could hear the exhale from behind the mask. It’d been a constant source of worry, that someone would spot her, and she’d been lucky thus far. Scavvers wouldn’t care; vagues would be afraid enough to stay away. But the right Zonie would blow her cover to hell and back. She’d be dragged in front of the Director, and she’d be back to CityCop if she were lucky. She knew that. Lis had never been one to hold on to the idea that luck would carry her through, and had no intentions of doing so now: she crouched lower.   
Fog muffled each little snap of the backpack against the buckle of her pants. She zipped it open without too much fuss, leaving the little drone, no wider than her gloved hand, to tumble into her palm. Its matte black metal sucked in all the light, reflecting nothing back as she picked it up. “Go on then,” she muttered, to no one in particular. “See what you can see, little guy.” Lis sighed and tossed the thing up, tapping her temple right after. 

Her goggles went dark, and a little electric tingle spread through her veins. The spread of the Undercity grew in front of her lids, a transparent overlay that sat just across her normal vision. Standing in one spot wasn’t exactly the safest of options, but she crouched into the smallest ball she could, directing the drone via her neural interface and letting the perimeter alarm spread around her. Lower, she urged, and the drone nearly swooped into a precariously situated building, a brick almost going with it. But it obeyed, and hovered just above the ground, far enough to not kick up dust but close enough that she could see through the fog.

Nothing.

An endless spread of grey, unmarred by footprints and seemingly untouched by anyone since the last war. That wasn’t the case, of course—the scavver proved that—but it might as well have been. Lis continued to direct the drone, little spirals in front of one house and then the next, but nothing changed except the remains of the building facades. “Well, fuck,” she muttered, and set the drone to return. She’d charge it, another hour of waiting, and then try again, maybe move along the search grid to a different location. No point in staying put here, even if the search grid had said it’d be most likely. Most likely didn’t mean certain, and she shook her head. Another day wasted. Recycled air tasted stale on her tongue as she sighed.

Then a hand touched her shoulder.


	6. Pity the Ark

We were a street away from our flat when Holmes sighed, crossing one knee over the other and staring at me, with one brow raised and the corners of his lips curled up. “Go on, then,” he said, gesturing at me and then settling back against the interior of the carriage. “You look fair bursting with questions. I know how you are.” 

“You do know him, I assume,” I began, smiling. “Or else this is a very strange circumstance indeed.”

“I do,” he confirmed, lighting a cigarette and letting the smoke swirl around his head. “We met, ah, years and years ago—before I knew you, when I was just out of school and not even a detective, as you see me now.”

“You must have been young indeed,” I observed. Before I knew him—early twenties, perhaps. I struggled to imagine my companion so youthful, and I shook my head, resisting the urge to say so. “How did you meet?” I settled on instead, just as interested in that as I was picturing Holmes as a young hooligan. 

“I met him and his family at a museum,” Holmes said, sighing again, as though discussing his past with Bright were a difficulty he couldn’t bear to speak of. It had, I reflected, likely less to do with Bright specifically and more to do with his general reticence to discuss any of his past at all. I’d never gotten to the bottom of it, and though I had met Mycroft and heard of another brother (albeit without a name) I could only rarely tease out of Holmes any other information. I had formed the opinion that his family life had not been a happy one—and so I tried not to pry, in order to grant him the same privacy that he granted me, on the matter. 

“On the Continent. It was a whim of a trip on my end; the desire to see…somewhere else.” He gestured with one hand, airy, as though it made little difference where it had been. It could be, from Holmes, a deliberate deception or a genuine lack of care, and I couldn’t decide which were more likely. “We spent a week traveling around together, exploring ruins and the like. He’s a congenial enough fellow; has his head in the clouds, a bit. Very friendly, as you’ve seen, and intelligent enough. Terribly unobservant, though.” He tsked, as though lacking in deductive ability were a horrible character flaw, something Mr Bright ought to be very ashamed of indeed. “He likes people, in a way that I have never quite understood. His friendliness—I saw your suspicion, Watson, don’t think I didn’t—is mostly sincere. Of course, I never expected to see him, or anyone associated with him, again, and so when our kindly landlady introduced him…” Holmes shrugged. “I didn’t imagine it could possibly be him.”

“He seems very…casual,” I observed, wondering if that would be the best word for a man who kept his gloves on indoors and didn’t use his own last name. 

“Yes, well. That is, in no small part, resulting from his upbringing, which was very casual indeed, and not a little unusual.” Holmes shook his head. “You must bear with his eccentricities, Watson, and consider yourself grateful that he has grown up into a much more sober man than when I first met him.” 

“Mm, very lucky indeed,” I repeated, wondering what that could possibly mean, and wondering if it implied that perhaps, there had been a time where Holmes were less strict than he were now. I doubted it. “Is he dangerous?” I asked, remembering the moment of fear on Holmes’ face in the sitting room. I suspect it had to do with the case and not with our visitor, but I could not be certain. The fog had come back down into the city as the day wore on, and outside, shops passed as if in a blur, the muffled noise of horse hooves echoing on the cold streets. I felt at once as though the case we found ourselves in, though we had only barely started investigating, were out of some penny novel. A strange arrival; disappeared nobles, all told during the tail end of a pandemic, and the coldest part of the year. I shivered, as Holmes did not answer right away, and images of Mr Bright, looming over his typewriter with gloved hands, flitted behind my eyes. 

Eventually Holmes leaned forward, his hands on his knees. Tightness came back into his face, and I felt another shiver down my spine. “Not intentionally,” he answered, finally. “Never intentionally; Bright really is a kind man, no matter his past and his occasional questionable choices. There are those who are connected with Bright who are very dangerous indeed, and we ought to be grateful that none of them have trailed after. But more importantly, if he is concerned about this case, and it very much apparent that he is, then we all ought to be concerned.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Holmes said, looking as serious as I had ever seen him, “Bright cares about approximately three things in his whole life.” Holmes began ticking them off with his fingers, taking a puff of his cigarette between each. “One, his family, and those he considers as such. Two, his inventions—and I am not certain that those two things could not be reversed, mind. And finally, three, his scientific pursuits, which often intersect with political activities. Kind and friendly as he is, Bright coming out of his self-imposed solitude to seek me out speaks of something dire indeed. He confided to me, after you left, that the bodies appearing coincided with a disappearance of one of his inventions. One of his more deadly ones, a weapon of some kind. He worries that it has made its way into the hands of someone nefarious, who potentially used it to injure the victims. He suspects it was used in the deaths of the disappeared.”

“He invents _weapons_?”

“The man has no particular specialization that I can glean, and it does not surprise me a whit that he’s stumbled on something dangerous, accidentally or otherwise. That it’s disappeared is all I know, and the specifics are unlikely to be relevant, in any case.” 

“He gave you more information after I left, then?” I asked, creating a picture in my head of a friendly man, primarily interested in scholarship—though that scholarship appeared to be at least occasionally unpleasant. 

He shook his head, matching the furrow of my brow. “No. Nothing beyond that. He truly has told us all he knows, and though I don’t doubt there may be more information to glean from the information he gave, I suspect that visiting the parents, and discussing with them the circumstances of their offpsring’s last known whereabouts, is going to give us far better information.” 

“I agree.”

“Good,” he said, in the tone of voice that meant he considered the matter very closed, no matter how many more questions I had. Part of me considered it lucky indeed that he had shared at all; the rest felt consumed by curiosity. “Then I suggest we discuss what we know about the situation and cease to gossip about Bright, who would be very put out if he knew about it. When did the first article appear in the paper?” 

“Three months ago,” I said. “The first one appeared three months ago.”

“Ah. Then the first disappearance of the nobles happened approximately four months ago, allowing time for the family to notice and report the missing member. If the perpetrators attempted their crimes first on a less noticeable group, then perhaps the first crime happened…five months ago.” He ticked the time off on his fingers. “During the fall, I think.” 

“A good working hypothesis.”

“A likely accurate one, based on previous experience and the fact that given the situation, few enough of the working class would go missing and have much, if any, notice taken of it.”  
True enough, unfortunately, and I nodded. “The first of the named families to have a disappearance was the Earl of Devonshire. The flu swept through the family, though it mercifully spared them all. After, his second son moved to London and stopped communicating with his family.”

“Ah, you see, that is very instructive—that family has had much luck, of late, financially speaking, and unless the Earl did not share that good luck with his offspring, money would not be the motivation for the disappearances. That is potentially one possibility eliminated. Something else, then. And the next?”

“That was the Montebain girl. The eldest, a daughter, who’d been skipped over.”

“Completely unattached?”

“Completely unattached, and uninterested in such,” I confirmed, recalling the gossip about her rather dismal showings during the latest Season. She’d driven off suitor after suitor, on purpose apparently—much to the dismay of her parents. How stressful it must be, I considered, to be subjected year after year to such a market. 

“Then we shall go to her family certainly, I think. She may have spent more time around them, and thus may have more to see.”

“She disappeared a month after the first.” 

“And the next?”

“A week after, and then two weeks after that. There’s been no specific pattern in timing, and of course, that’s difficult to discern regardless, given the lag in reporting. But if the first of the kidnapings occurred four months ago, and the bodies were found at least a week after that…” I paused, and Holmes nodded slowly, exhaling smoking and turning to stare.

“Then they would have been somewhere, perhaps held against their will.”

“Presumably held against their will, or otherwise unable to communicate with their families,” I added. “I do wish we had more details on the state of the bodies,” I said, leaning back against the carriage. “Without it, there’s an enormous amount of variability. We don’t know when the poor lads died, or even what sort of poison was used—assuming it even was poison. Only one had any wounds, and we can’t even be certain how those wounds were received. Defensively? In an attempt to escape? At the initial kidnapping?” I threw my hands up. “With so much information lacking, and the only certainty that the victims were spirited away, specifically from London.”

“There’s not enough information to truly call it a kidnapping. As I said to you earlier in the day, these were all men and women of means, but presumably without a direction. It could be they were lured away relatively easily, and that would complicate our job further.”

“It would complicate an already complicated job further, you mean,” I rephrased, and Holmes snorted, leaning back and tossing his cigarette. He immediately lit another. 

“Well, we shall see what we see, I suppose,” he said, and I, trusting in my companion’s abilities, nodded. 

We arrived at the Duke’s London home, the front of it all stone and glass, intricate beneath the grime the city inevitably attracted. The carriage stopped and we alighted, Holmes looking left and right, narrowing his eyes at the door. He would see far, far more than I could, and I wondered, as I always did, if it overwhelmed him, to notice so much. If it did, he showed no sign: he knocked and waited, hands clasped behind his back. A doorman met us, and soon enough a butler saw us into the parlor. My companion’s name did not go so far in those days: it was enough to grant us entrance without suspicion, but not welcome without hesitance. We waited for some time before the master of the house arrived, looking somber and serious in a house outfit, perfectly tailored and only a little out of date. He was not a tall man, stooped with age and wrinkled; hair white and lips thin. The bags under his eyes spoke of both age and stress, and I recalled the rumors, of how he’d married someone younger for her financial security. If he had, it did not appear to have helped ease his situation any. Or perhaps it had, and the loss of his son weighed on him more than his conduct might have shown. 

“I understand you gentlemen have come to inquire after Percy,” the Earl said, peering at us from heavy lids, his salt and pepper brows fluffy, but well-groomed. Still, the room looked dusty in the corners, without the gleaming, unused appearance of some like it I’d seen. Fewer domestics, I suspected, with too much work to help but cut corners. “Has someone contacted you for assistance, Mr Holmes? I haven’t heard as such.”

“Someone has, yes,” Holmes said, inclining his head and fixing his eyes on the man before us. He kept his tone grave, face serious. “I am not in the habit of naming my clients, you understand.” 

“Of course not.” The Earl did not appear impressed by that, and I thought that his brow might have twitched. It was difficult to tell, however: the Earl existed in the vein of the sorts of men memorialized in stone and paint, continuing on after death with only a little less emotional variation than they’d had in life. “Though I doubt I can provide you with any help in particular, gentlemen. Percy has never been a particularly thoughtful boy, or one interested in doing any duty by his family—even the minimal ones he had been assigned. He barely graduated college, to be perfectly frank with you, and though no parent wishes for their offspring’s disappearance, I was not surprised when he stopped contacting any of us.”

“Ah.” What duties those might be, given his position in the family, was not elaborated upon. From what I could glean, Percy Anthony had an unfortunate sort of reputation, the kind that might have resulted in a natural distance between father and son. Still, the casual dismissal struck me as unwarranted, and Holmes and I exchanged a glance. “Then I suppose I might ask if your son had any vices in particular, anything that might have created enemies. I apologize for the indelicacy of the question,” he continued, watching the man’s face, “but I must rule out such things as I continue the investigation.” 

“Of course.” I did not think that the Earl would answer, but he nodded, looking from Holmes to myself and finally frowning enough that his mustache moved. “He did favor a certain gambling den, I am given to understand. Though, to his credit, after a particularly unpleasant mishap late last year, Percy had stopped going. In fact, he had apologized to me for the trouble, and sworn the whole habit off entirely. It would not surprise me to hear he had returned to it, of course, but last I spoke to his companions, they insisted that he had truly stopped.” The Earl’s eye twitched, halfway to narrowing. “Percy was never one to give up anything. Bullheaded that way.” 

“What mishap?”

“Nothing of interest. Someone accused my son of cheating—he wasn’t, of course, I have his most grave assurances, and I do believe him—but a fellow patron took exception.” The Earl shook his head “An unfortunate event, to be sure, but it had been months ago. As far as I’m aware, Percy and the man in question put aside any further quarrel after my son’s innocence was proved. They dropped out of contact, but they were the best of friends for several months.”

“And there’s been no one else that you can think of who might have had reason to wish harm upon your son?”

“No one that I can think of—though I am, perhaps, not the one to ask.”

“And you’ve made no effort to find him?” I asked. I was not quite so schooled in neutrality as the Earl was, and I frowned, watching his impassive face.

“I’m afraid I’ve been far too busy to chase after the most wayward of my offspring.” He poured a glass of brandy, looking at the pair of us over the rim, narrowed eyes sharp despite his age. None was offered us, and later, after Holmes had become a household name, I wondered occasionally if he regretted it. “I was quite sure he was fine and hardy—only off carousing somewhere—until a fortnight ago. It was his mother’s birthday, you see,” the Earl said. A little frown curled his lips. “Percy, whatever his other flaws, would never let that pass without some sign. Flowers on her grave, a telegram. Something. Nothing came this year. When that happened, I knew immediately that something was wrong.”

“You contacted Scotland Yard afterward?” I asked, and the Earl turned toward me, looking me up and down. 

“No. I contacted a private detective, someone who might have been able to find my son without scandal, should there be such a thing. But he was unable to do so, despite coming with the very best of recommendations.” The Earl took another sip of brandy. “Only then did I contact the Yard.”

“And neither found any trace?”

“You may speak to my wife about what, exactly, they found—she coordinated much of the search. But in short, no, they were not able to locate my son.” The Earl of Dudley drank the rest of the glass down, then shook his head. “I suggest, overall, speaking to her about the situation—she noticed first that he was missing, and was the one to organize much of the search. I regret, of course, that I didn’t intervene more quickly, but as you might imagine, I’ve many other things on my mind, and have been busy tending to my house. My wife was close to the boy, and probably has more to say as to his general character than I do.”

“Of course,” my companion said. “If we could speak to her, then, perhaps we’ll be able to discover some additional information.” 

“As you wish.” The Earl set his glass aside and stood. Both Holmes and I did the same, nodding to the man as he passed us by. I wondered if, should Mary and I be blessed with children, if I would ever appear as indifferent as the Earl was, even should my offspring prove as disappointing. As the Earl of Dudley left, Holmes watched him go, as unimpressed as I’d ever seen him. I might have asked, but a young woman joined us, a head shorter than anyone else in the room, with blond, curled hair and a round face. But her eyes, bright green, leapt from one of us to the next, settling on the Earl with a little curl upward of her lips.

“My Lady,” he said, nodding. “Excellent timing. If you could help these two gentlemen, please? They had some questions about Percy, and I’ve a meeting I need to get to.” He spared her a smile, just enough that his eyes crinkled up. He genuinely liked her, then, I thought. 

“It would be my pleasure,” she said with a little bob of her head.

“Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I do hope your quest succeeds, and if there’s anything else I can do, please don’t hesitate to contact either my son or my wife.” We both nodded, and the Earl disappeared without another glance toward either of us, walking out of the hall and away. 

Pleasantries exchanged, the Countess walked us up a dark, narrow set of stairs, rosebud lips set in a little frown. She was young indeed, no older than Mary and potentially younger, looking small even in her somber, dark gown. “You’re here about Percy?” she asked, eyes flicking over toward Holmes. Some spark of recognition lit within them, and I wondered if perhaps my stories had just found their stride with the youth of the city. Perhaps that had been how Bright had heard of us—he did seem much younger than either myself or Holmes, and though it would be difficult to tell due to his exuberance, I thought he was not yet thirty. Only a little older than the Countess, then. 

“Were the two of you close?” Holmes asked instead of answering, gesturing her forward as we crested the first landing and turned down a small hallway. The walls of the house pressed close to each other, with only grimy, small windows facing the street. The light provided made my pupils stretch, and I could well imagine a younger version of myself feeling stifled in such a close place. “If I’m correct, you married your husband only recently.”

“Percy and my brother were school chums,” she said, nodding down the hallway. “I met him through my brother; they spent heaps of time together.”

“And through Percy you met his father?” Holmes asked, following close behind the woman. 

“Just so.” She walked down the hall, absently pulling one of the keys hanging from her chatelaine out. “I’d have the housemaid show you up to his room, but…” she paused, looking back at my friend. “I was the one who sent the note to the newspaper, after the detective couldn’t find anything. Over my husband’s objection, when the Yard couldn’t find any trace of Percy. I’m glad you’re here to look for him. I’ve read about you, Mr Holmes, and I do hope you can find him.”

A flicker of guilt bubbled in my breast—I knew well we wouldn’t be. But Holmes only nodded, looking solemn. “Of course,” he said. “Your husband said as much—did you also handle much of the discussion with the Yard?”

“I did,” she said, approaching one of the middle doors. The house had gone quiet, absent the usual chatter of servants or even the quiet clanks of radiators. Unbidden, the comparison to a tomb came to mind, and a shiver crawled down my spine. “They couldn’t find anything. The first one—not the official police—he said the last anyone had seen Percy that he could tell, he’d been well. Happy. At his club, with his friends, talking about how much nicer things had been since he quit cards.” She snorted softly, shaking her head and unlocking the door. It creaked as she pressed it open with the palm of her hand, and a little flurry of dust twirled in the air. “I don’t think you’ll find anything in here, but you’re welcome to try. I looked through it already.”

“And?” Holmes walked through the door regardless, head twisting back and forth to take in the room. “Did you find anything at all of interest? Anything out of place?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, eyes dropping. “His father isn’t wrong—he’d struggled in school; fallen in with a bad crowd. Wild. But by the time he and my brother had met, he’d straightened up a bit. Liam’s a bit of a…well, he rubbed off on Percy, anyway. Straightened him up right proper. They became good friends that last year of school, and after they graduated went on a tour of the Continent together. After Percy got back, he made different friends, people who were….people who were more like him, how he was then, you understand. Hopeful, I think. He joined a club, not that he talked about it a lot, but he did talk about how wonderful it was to be surrounded by people who had plans for the future. But he stayed in touch with a few of the people he met that last year of school; people who knew him and my Liam.”

“Are you in contact with any of these people?” Holmes asked, wandering toward a desk and opening the drawers. “Either the school friends or the people from the club.”

“Not currently, no. I could get your their names, or the names of his school friends at least, but the detectives have already spoken with them. None of them know where Percy went. Nor did any of them believe he had any reason to leave on his own. He was a cheerful chap, Mr Holmes—always had been. It was hard for him, for a bit, but he always came through it better.”

“Hm.” I considered how many other young men could hide their innermost demons from others, and whether or not this young Countess would be able to spot the difference between false cheer and genuine joie de vivre. 

“Is it your opinion that he wouldn’t have voluntarily left, then?” Holmes shut the drawer and opened another, frowning down at the wooden surface in a way I knew meant he’d seen something. 

“On the contrary.” A draft blew through the room, and she curled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The shiver went back down my spine. “I think that’s exactly what he did. For America perhaps, or maybe somewhere on the Continent. To start over—you’ve seen what my husband thinks of him. Too much alike, those too. He has little else tying him here, now.”  
“And he would do this without telling anyone?” Another drawer, another frown, and Holmes looked up, scrutinizing the woman with a narrow-eyed stare. “Without telling you, or his father?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “He’s got his own money—he made it gambling, before he stopped. He was very clever about it, for several years running. Didn’t cheat, my husband was right about that. He made it all by being very careful.”

“Do you know why he stopped gambling? Was it because of the accusations?” I asked. Holmes looked over at me with the briefest of smiles, a little nod of approval sending pleased satisfaction through me.

“No, not at all. He went there that night to settle his last debts and decided to play a farewell game—he’d not been back for months before that,” she said. She played with the links of her chatelaine, rolling them between her fingers. One link, two links, and I wondered how many would pass before I could be certain she was holding something back. “He’d been ill, and after that, said he lost the taste for it. It’s my understanding that his winnings over the years amounted to a considerable sum, all up.”

“Do you think it’s possible he told one of his brothers where he went, and they’re keeping the secret?” I continued. What would she be holding back—perhaps she had some knowledge of where he’d gone. I didn’t think it likely if she’d been pushing her husband to find him, but there existed a link between the two that couldn’t be explained, I thought, by only a brother.

“Maybe,” the duchess said, wrinkling her nose up. “He’s closest with his eldest brother, Edwin. He’s off in the country overseeing our investments right now; Percy’d joined him for a bit, just after he got back from the trip. His younger brothers are all in schools, but I suppose it’s possible he sent them off a letter. I haven’t heard anything, though.”

“What about your brother?” Holmes asked. “Would he have told him, if they were close?” His tone caught my attention: he knew exactly the answer he would be receiving, and only asked for the sake of confirming. He did that, sometimes, in order to ensure that his deductions were correct. Inevitably they were, but he felt the need to prove it, whether to himself or me, I couldn’t be sure. In this situation, the reaction was immediate: something shuttered in the Countess’ face, her lips tightening and her eyes narrowing. Not quite so close with her feelings as her husband, not yet. 

“My brother Liam—Liam Evans—went with Percy to Bohemia. They took the trip together, and fell in during the winter. Liam died, and was buried abroad. So no. I rather doubt it.”

“My condolences,” I said, and Holmes nodded. “If I may ask—”

“The flu,” the Duchess interrupted, fixing me with those bright green eyes for a moment before glancing away, toward her hands. Another link on the chatelaine passed between her fingertips. “If it weren’t for a particularly clever doctor, it would have taken Percy as well. He came back right after.” 

“Ah,” I said, and nodded again. An unsurprising, if tragic, end. 

“Feel free to look around,” she said, dropping the silver and pulling her shawl tighter once more. “If you have any further need of me, I’ll be downstairs. Come see me before you leave, and I’ll give you the names of a few of his friends—you’re more than welcome to visit them as well, if you wish it.” 

“Thank you, Countess,” I said, and she nodded, sweeping out of the room with a frown still on her lips. She half shut the door behind her, leaving us to our own devices.

I immediately turned toward my companion.“What have you found?” I asked, pacing closer towards Holmes as he darted back over the desk. He opened the top drawer again, pulling it all the way out and peering into it with a furrowed brow. 

“You see here,” he said, placing one finger in a small divot in the wood and stroking downward. As I focused on it, a line emerged, a scratch, shallow enough to be barely noticeable. “Someone has scraped the wood—and recently, too, you can see how pale it still is.” Indeed, little bits of the substance ridged each side, making a thin furrow in the dark cherry. “There’s another one, similar in that drawer. As though someone had raided the desk, emptying it in a hurry and damaging it in the process.” The little room had only the light from the lit lamps, and I squinted, trying to find any other hints of such a rush. “And sometimes, when someone had done something like that….ah.” With a creak, Holmes eased the drawer off its guides, handing it to me with a nod and a raise of his brows. I took it, holding it closer to my face. Two such scratches decorated the bottom, criss-crossing, as though someone had removed two bits of something harder than the wood. One line knocked the little bits of wood off the outline of the other—made at two different times, then. 

“Here,” Holmes said. I looked over the rim of the drawer to find his whole arm stuck in the hole left behind, nose wrinkled as he grasped for something. A moment later, and he pulled back with a hum of satisfaction. He raised a brow: between two fingers he held a scrap of white, so clean that I, at first, thought it was cleaned cloth. As I grabbed it, I realized that it was similar to the paper Bright had given us that morning, but much finer; thin and so white that it caused an afterimage when I blinked. 

“What the devil is this?” I breathed, rubbing it between my fingers and marveling, shocked that someone in such straight could have possibly afforded something so luxurious. 

“Paper,” Holmes said, still kneeling at the desk. “It’s paper of some kind. I suspect Bright might have a better idea of what it means. He’s clever at that sort of thing. If he doesn't have an answer immediately, I am certain I could find one.” 

“Hm.” I couldn’t decide if that were a point for or against Bright. I held the scrap up, hoping for writing and finding none at all. “Is there any more?” I asked, hoping for something, anything, more concrete than a scrap of strange paper. Holmes crouched down, peering into the spot the drawer had been, and shook his head. He pulled the other out, those scratches much more visible. I scrambled to set the first drawer aside, holding onto the second as Holmes shoved it at my chest. He reached into that spot as well, coming out empty handed and with a little sigh.  
“Well, I suppose we’ve seen all there is to see in this room, doctor. Whoever did the cleaning—and I suspect it was our missing Lord himself—cleaned it out in a rush, but thoroughly.” He nodded toward the bed. “Observe, if you will, how clean the floorboards. And here, the curtains—no dust.” I looked, then shrugged.

“It could have been the maids, Holmes.”

“Unlikely, given the state of the parlor. No, Watson, I suspect this place has no more secrets to offer up.” He stood and brushed his hands off on his pants, glancing at the lack of dust with a smile. “Let’s go attend to the Countess—young Percy’s friends may have more information than his room did.” 

We walked out twenty minutes later with a handful of names written on a slip of paper, much more cream than the paper secreted away in Holmes’ pocket. The list comprised of five names, all young men living in the city. Holmes scrutinized them as we climbed into a cab, running his finger down the paper with a furrowed brow. “Of these men, this one, Ernest Bellvue, is on the way back to Baker Street. I propose we visit him, and then return to see what Bright has to say about our evidence.”

“And the rest?”

“A telegram may suffice. Though I’ve no doubt that there is more—potentially much more—to glean from their testimony than either the Yard or a private detective discovered, I would rather pursue other avenues of attack.” He held the paper aloft once more, eyebrow raised. “Whether or not that will help at all, I cannot be certain. If it does not, we may yet need to speak with the Mountbaines, or perhaps with these gentlemen.” He held the note from the Countess up with the other hand, the contrast between the two so astounding that I shook my head. 

“One way or another, I’m quite certain, you shall solve it,” I said, and Holmes looked away, putting the papers back in his pockets.

“Yes, I suppose so. I do hope the resolution comes before your marriage, Watson; it would feel strange indeed for you to not be involved in a case you had predicted with such eerie accuracy.”

“I certainly did not. I proposed the Yard would come, or perhaps a parent. I did not suggest that a friend of yours would appear, seemingly out of thin air, in order to request our assistance.”   
He laughed at that, and shook his head, settling back, crossing his arms. “I suppose that’s true. Though Bright and I have not seen each other for many years. I don’t, at this point, know that friend would be exactly accurate.”

“Well, I don’t know that a few intervening years could necessarily render someone no longer a friend, Holmes,” I said, reproachful, and he arched a brow at me. “That would be reserved for someone who’d done something particularly awful.” 

“A betrayal.”

“I suppose.”

“Well, let us hope that none of Percy Anthony’s friends have done so,” he muttered. Even so, I could detect the desire to change the topic, and once more I let it drop, so intensely curious about Mr Sebastian Bright and his relationship to my companion that I felt as though I might burst.


End file.
